


It's Not Like Christmas At All

by ProfessorDrarry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Advent Calendar, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Mentions of Past Homelessness, New Year's Eve, POV Alternating, Past Relationship(s), Poverty, References to Illness, estranged family, happy ending guaranteed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:33:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 29,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21625372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorDrarry/pseuds/ProfessorDrarry
Summary: Draco knew his life wouldn't have been appealing in the eyes of his past-self; Muggle job that would make his parents shudder. Muggle flat with an inconvenient living situation. Muggle hairdresser and coffee shop and charity work. But it was perfect. Well. Almost perfect.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 99
Kudos: 275





	1. Chapter 1

**December 1st**

_"They're singing deck the halls, but it's not like Christmas at all, I remember when you were here—"_

"Amanda. You're doing it again." 

"Am not." 

"Mariah." 

"Shit." 

"Careful, Erica will hear you. No swearing on shift," Draco chuckled. He readjusted the headband that was starting to press on the parts of his skull that you generally don't want to have pressed and smiled cheesily at his coworker. 

"You know you don't have to wear that thing back here, right? Her control of Christmas _Fucking_ Cheer does not yet extend to the stock room." 

"And _you_ know what my response to that is going to be."

"Yeah, yeah. You really need this fucking job etcetera. Whatever. That doesn't mean she gets to terrorize you. You have enough of that in the rest of your life. By the way, has he—" 

"Banned. Subject," Draco interjected with a very pointed glare up at her. She held up her hands in surrender. 

"I just wanted to ask if—" 

"Amanda," he warned. 

She shook her head but did stop talking, in favour of holding out the reindeer pyjamas she'd just pulled down from the shelf. He took them, scanned them, and threw them in the box to the left.

He sighed at the completely unnecessary double-checking they were currently doing. "Mandy, if it has Santas and its been there all year, it's on clearout. I think we can safely assume she wants it out."

"That may be so," she said, gesturing with her own price gun, "but I have 30 minutes left, and if I'm here, I don't have to be out _there_. So shut it and take them one at a fucking time like I asked, my utterly gorgeous blonde Adonis and future boyfriend." 

Draco took the next pair and chuckled, wagging a finger at her jokingly. "Fine, my magnanimous, raven-haired beauty," he teased. "But I'll remind you again, your compliments change nothing, darling." 

She sighed, pouting in an exaggerated sadness that made him laugh. "Still gay, then?" 

"As a lavender unicorn." 

She shrugged at him, winked, and threw down a dusty case of frilly red panties, embellished with the words _ho ho ho._

"Andrew!" a cranky voice called a moment later.

Draco rolled his eyes so hard that it gave him a sharp pain in the back of his temple. "Do you think that's _my_ name today, or is she trying to get _Andre's_ attention?" he sighed, holding his scanner out to Amanda, already knowing the answer. "Back here, Erica!" 

"Ah. There you are, Andrew. I—" 

" _Draco,_ " Amanda interrupted. 

"What?" 

"His name. It's _Draco._ "

"Ah. Right," Erica answered with a hasty wave of her hand. "The weird name." 

Amanda cleared her throat angrily, taking a step down from the ladder to glare at Erica. Draco shot her a begging, pleading sort of look that she of course ignored. 

"I don't strictly think you're _allowed_ to say anyone's name is 'weird' at work. Not to mention, it's kind of, you know, horrible. No matter where you are." 

Draco winced. Amanda, always meaning well, was only just barely still employed. Even though he knew she didn't care, he really, _really_ did and he did not want to be caught in the crossfire. 

Erica, however, looked up for the first time in weeks. In fact, for practically the first time ever, she looked up as though she had just noticed that she was speaking to a _real_ person, and not some sort of clothing-slinging, customer-service-programmed robot. She blinked once, looked between them, and then nodded sheepishly. 

"Right. Yes. No. Of course, it is. I'm so sorry, Draco. That is obviously... not what I meant. I just—sorry." 

"What can I do, Erica?" Draco replied, effectively seeming to calm her and ease her embarrassment. 

"The floor is slammed. Whoever thought it was a good idea to do a pre- _pre-_ sale can eat my—sorry, I just got off the phone with cooperate. It's been a long one." She exhaled slowly, gripping her ubiquitous clipboard tightly and closing her eyes. "Reminder that the bloody _music_ changes tomorrow, and I don't. Want. To. Hear. About. It." 

"I'm headed to the till," Draco said soothingly, shooting a murderous glance to Amanda, who just mouthed 'kiss-ass' at him. 

Truthfully, Draco knew he was a kissass. He always had been, sort of. He felt comfortable there. 

Still, the rest of his shift was spent with his stomach roiling at the thought of being fired so close to Christmas, and he sent a _very_ explicit text to Amanda on his break. 


	2. Chapter 2

**December 2nd**

The next morning dawned bright and frigid, making Draco smile and shiver simultaneously. He tiptoed out of the house the minute he was dressed, deciding to walk through the icy early morning and get some fresh air before he was doomed to an eight-hour shift surrounded by ‘ _let it snow let it snow let it snow’_ on repeat. It might not actually _be_ snowing, in that this was still London and it was technically still warm enough for rain. But, the sky was blue, the air was clear for the first time in weeks, and as the sun rose, there was a distinct sense of promise that surrounded him. Draco felt hope as a nearly painful clenching in the back of his teeth. Unfamiliar contentment settled around him as he reemerged from the cafe round the corner with a flat white and a pasty; for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel fragile or fleeting. Hope, perhaps, was returning to the marrow of his soul. 

Of course, the bubble burst the second he set his keycard into the staff entrance slot and was hit with the overwhelming heat and the heady, impenetrably fake smell of Cinnamon Spiced air fresheners. The nick-knack aisle at the front of the store, which Amanda had fondly dubbed The Shit Stacks, always made the whole place stink of Corporate Christmas. He took a deep breath of outside air before the door closed, forcing himself to relax as he marched purposefully to the back. 

“Morning, André,” he called to his coworker, who was perched at the top of the ladder, rearranging a high display of sweaters. 

“You’re late,” he returned, sounding like he may have already been here for hours. “She’s in a right state.”  
  
Draco grinned up at him, flipping him off as he sauntered to the back. He _wasn’t_ late, but André always made the mistake of arriving at the same time as Erica. Draco actually suspected that he had a bit of a crush on their crotchety manager, which was fair, he supposed; from a strictly aesthetic point of view, Erica was probably pretty. It was hard to make a fair judgement, despite the fact that she was probably only about thirty. The years of retail and fighting with management who never bothered to check on the actual stores they owned had made her resentful, and she wore the bitterness like armour. He’d seen her drunk, once, at a May Day party the store had thrown. Since then, Draco had found charity for the woman in places he didn’t expect it. 

None of that charity lasted into Christmas, of course, but Draco forgave her the other eleven months of the year. 

“Good morning, Erica,” he said, sticking his head into her office, where she was murmuring at her old clunky desktop, tapping her leg. 

“Good—oh, Draco, good. I need to talk to you before you go out to the floor.”  
  
“Uh…okay?” Draco replied, his throat dry. 

“Close the door.”  
  
Draco gulped. The door was never closed. Going over the past two weeks, searching for any error he'd made or shift he might have missed, he came up blank. The lack of knowledge made him uncomfortable, just as it always had. He forced silence that he hadn’t had to use in years; silence in the face of fear was a far more difficult task for him than he liked to admit.  
  
“Your last pay deposit bounced,” she said quietly, holding out an envelope. “I wrote this one out to cash." 

  
Draco took the envelope gently and closed his eyes. He hadn’t spent anything that hadn’t been in cash, or in Diagon, all month. He honestly hadn’t remembered to _check_ on his Muggle bank account.

Erica gently cleared her throat. "Draco...did it happen again?" 

“Not sure,” he murmured. 

“You know I can help, right?” she pushed, uncharacteristically calm and caring. “My offer stands. Management. It’s right here. It would be...security if nothing else. From—”  
  
“No, I’m fine,” Draco snapped, drawing back his anger by clearing his own throat and standing before trying again. “Thank you, for this. I’ll look into it tonight and bring you new information. I know this isn’t easy.”  
  
“You could take the day,” she said, strangled. It had taken her a lot to offer and it made Draco smile. 

“And miss the first day of Christmas music?” he grinned. “Not on your life.”  
  
“Oh thank god. We’re short-staffed as it is and this new shipment of reindeer games — I shit you not, that’s what they’re called— is on its way because it missed the truck and also I’m pretty sure that Maya—”  
  
“Erica. Breath. We can do this. We do this every year.”  
  
“Right. Breath. Okay.”  
  
“Good. Do you need me to go get you a coffee or something before we start the open?”  
  
“Never leave me,” she replied, fishing out a tenner and shooing him away. “Get André something too. He was so early.”  
  
Draco took his time getting the coffee; after all, it was a Monday. They wouldn’t be busy until the second open hour at the earliest and he was extremely unsettled. This was the third time this year; he was trying desperately to convince himself it was just a mistake. Cheques bounced all the time, didn't they? Clerical errors and things.

Resigning himself to needing to know, he slipped into the closest branch of his bank, just a few blocks up from the store. When he got to the teller, he handed over his card and swallowed down his panic as she frowned slightly and rescanned it.  
  
“One moment, sir,” she said, prim and professional even as she stood up to whisper to a manager. He exhaled hard. He didn’t need to wait for her to come back to know it had happened again. 

“Sorry, sir, but it seems—”  
  
“That my account has been closed,” he finished for her. “Yeah, okay. I need to make an appointment. For tomorrow? I have to go back to work right now. Can you cash this anyway, please?”  
  
“Certainly,” she said, that annoying sympathetic tone that he hated more than any other creeping into her posh politeness. She was subtly staring at him behind downcast eyes, barely looking at the cheque; her neck was already bright red, and he assumed that beneath her heavy makeup, she was also blushing.

He trained his cold gaze on her and hardened until she swallowed and turned back to her monitor. When she handed him an appointment card and a neat stack of bills a moment later, she looked much less willing to help him. He nodded curtly and left. 

It wasn’t until he hit the street that the tears welled up in his eyes. He had dried them by the time he made it back to the cafe, but the _feeling_ of crying lingered for the rest of his day. 

Draco was going to have some very strong urges if he ever found him. Urges of the injurious type. 


	3. Chapter 3

**December 3rd**

Tuesday was easy; he went into the store at noon, meaning he’d had time to finish his Christmas shopping, reopen his own bank account, ate a delicious lunch at The Pomme before he’d had to deal with the jumper shipment and the angry grandma’s who were trying to return too-small clothing.

Even though he left his short shift happy, he was still sad and exhausted, and the walk home felt longer than normal. He almost gave in and took the tube, but he stuck his headphones instead to drown out the sounds of the canned music being piped in all down the high street. He'd attended the protest when they'd started doing it last year; a rare display of public support, he'd stood firmly against hostile architecture of music in public places. Driving people away from lingering on street corners was not a cause he'd support. 

The music on his ancient Muggle player was turned up loud, making the Bowie album that was on repeat this week sound tinny and even faker than normal, but it was better than endless jingle-bell-heavy versions of Deck the Halls.

Draco didn't hate Christmas, though he'd been accused of it many times in the past few years. He just grew tired of Christmas very fast, which was problematic when you worked in retail and Christmas went on for _fucking_ ever. 

He rested his head against the cool wood of his front door for a moment before fishing out his keys with a sigh and resigning himself to having to go in if he was going to be able to take off his overly-warm jumper and shower. 

"Carl?" he called out the second he pushed the door open. If he was going to deal with his current 'flatmate', he certainly didn't want to be surprised by the interaction. 

He waited for sound as he stuffed his work bag onto the rack, pulling his uniform from his pocket so the apron could hang on its hook overnight and pull out the scent of cinnamon. For a millisecond, he considered packing it all into the bag again and heading to Pansy's for the evening. He would almost be willing to endure an evening of Patricia's _so, darling, when are you going to settle down and come home?_ in exchange for the yuletide drinks that flowed freely from December 1st till New Year in the Parkinson residence. 

"Hey," Carl replied, appearing in the kitchen doorway with a smirk plastered on his face. Draco fought to not return it. "I see Erica has hit full tilt," he continued with a nod toward him. 

Draco reached up, only having just realised that he'd walked home with his jingle bell adorned felt antlers fixed firmly to his head.

"Oh no, that's tomorrow. Today was _pre-tilt_. The sale starts tomorrow.” 

Carl laughed and swung himself forward, capturing Draco in his arms with light and humour in his eyes that had been missing for months. "Then I assume you need a drink," he teased, leaning into Draco. 

It was so tempting. Tempting to just lean in and let go, let the story be written here instead of two weeks ago. But the small jolt in his stomach reminded him why he was not going to do that, and he took a step back. 

"Carl," he warned.

Jumping back like he'd been shot, Carl's hands went immediately to his back pockets, an adorable habit that had once gotten Draco into his bed.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Old habits and such. Do you though? Want a drink. I… But no, it's a weeknight. You won't." 

Draco shook his head. "Thanks though." 

He surveyed the flat as surreptitiously as he could and found it in much the same state it had been that morning. 

"I have plans actually," he lied. "Just came home to change." 

"It's half ten," Carl complained. Draco eyed him sharply and he turned sheepish. "Have fun." 

He closed his bedroom door, locking it with a silent spell behind him, and crashed into his bed; the oblivion that took him a moment later was dark and painful, and full of the knowledge that Carl would probably not even notice that he had never left the flat again. 

He fell asleep with tears crusting his eyes and his pants balled up on the floor beside him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this gets happier, and pretty soon. But please, PLEASE take care of yourselves my loves. This time of year can be tough. The fic will be here when it isn't Christmas too, and also never necessary for you to read if it's hurting you. Please mind the tags.


	4. Chapter 4

**December 4th**

Wednesdays were Draco’s favourite day. He was always off, had been for three consecutive years. Since no one else ever wanted Wednesday as a single day off in the middle of the week, it had never been under threat. And, at this point, he had enough Old Timer clout that no one ever asked him _why_ he loved Wednesday off so much. 

When he showed up at the shelter before even Alex had gotten there, he had to admit to himself that he was maybe getting a bit too dependent on the busy days off. He’d worry about that after the holidays, though. Right now, he had work to do and a purpose. There were worse ways to spend his time. 

“Theo!” he called into the empty black of the dark storeroom his key opened. “THEODORE-O!” 

“Don’t call me that, asshole,” Theo replied, ducking his head out of the kitchen and flipping him off. “How are you, Draco?” he added warmly, an afterthought that was probably related to Draco’s large grin. 

“I, good sir, am excellent.”  
  
“Has Carl moved out?”  
  
“I choose not to reply to that question,” Draco said, leaving his grin intact and sending back a rude hand gesture. “Have you told Pansy about your job yet?”  
  
Theo looked at the ground. 

“Well exactly. So let’s just leave it.”  
  
Draco threw his coat on a hook and grabbed an apron instead. He lugged a bag of potatoes through the storeroom and into the kitchen, where Theo had already pulled out a giant pot and found the salt, a thing that constantly went missing. 

“Do we have a number for today?”  
  
“A number?” Theo laughed. “You mean, that projection that the board creates that has never, in the history of the organization, been accurate?”  
  
Draco chuckled. “That’s the one. You know, as much as we both know I love it here, I think you saying there is a ‘history’ here is a little pretentious. It’s only been three years.”  
  
“Three years longer than either of us ever expected, Draco,” Theo said seriously, gesturing with his knife and grinning. He turned back to the stove and dumped the onion he'd been chopping into a pot. He put down the supplies and marched over to where Draco was already peeling a potato. He reached out and grabbed Draco by the shoulder, spinning him around to face him, potato in hand. “Say it.”  
  
“Theo, you know what I meant," Draco teased, rolling his eyes.  
  
" _Say it_ ,” Theo insisted.  
  
Draco sighed, held onto Theo's arm and smiled. “I am learning to be grateful for what I have while being excited for what has yet to come.”  
  
Theo grinned and pulled him into a hug. “And _I_ am learning that even devastation is an opportunity for transformation, and my gratitude evolves as I do.”  
  
“I wish you had never gone to that fucking affirmations workshop.”  
  
“No, you don’t.”  
  
“No,” Draco admitted, letting go of Theo. “I don’t.”

"So you going to tell me why Carl is still a banned topic?"  
  
“Maybe later. When we get to drinks. I’m fine, I promise.”  
  
Theo nodded. “Alright then. Let’s get to it. Those potatoes are not going to peel themselves."

As tradition mandated, the projection of forty clients was sorely lacking; the regular crowd of forty had arrived by noon into the warm lounge, settling into their normal crews and pulling out cards and instruments, and the newcomers doubled their numbers by the time lunch was actually served. Draco stood behind the counter only as long as was necessary to serve food, and then dragged Theo out to the lounge, forcing him to play a couple of songs to make Maria smile. 

He left at half four and started to tear up the moment he hit the sidewalk. He turned on his heel and threw himself back into the lobby. 

"Change of plans. Coming round. Need to borrow a jumper before we head to the pub."

Theo laughed heartily and slung an arm over his shoulder. They spent a quick hour at his large, drafty loft and he stole the extra fluffy green button-up that he always stole before they headed into the night with a jovial cheeriness that he hadn't been feeling lately. 

Blaise was in an excessively ridiculous mood and the four of them were in peels of raucous laughter before anyone had even ordered a drink. Pansy was in the best mood he'd seen her in and months and he kept intentionally kicking Theo under the table. 

They sobered as the food arrived, Theo looking down at his plate of hot pie and his pint and holding out his hands. The others completed the circle silently and closed their eyes. 

"This is a new day. The day gave us this," he muttered. 

They weren't exactly praying; none of them felt any particular affinity to any one deity, though the conversation had briefly been had when they'd all been living in the studio flat that Theo now occupied alone. They decided instead that their faith was better placed in each other. After all, belief in external forces had never served any of them particularly well. 

They ate in silence for a moment before Blaise cleared his throat. 

"So, Draco, you going to tell us why he's still at your flat?" he muttered nonchalantly. "Theo texted us," he added apologetically. 

He sighed in response and put down his fork. "Look, guys. You know I love you, but when I said 'I don't want to talk about Carl', I meant _I don't want to talk about Carl._ It's complicated. Plus, more important problem." 

Pansy put down her pint, a sure sign that she was about to launch into the offensive. He held up a hand to stop her. 

"No, seriously. It is. He found my Muggle account again." 

"Oh, fuck, really?" 

" _Draco,"_ Pansy exclaimed, a hand over her mouth. "You _have_ to go report him!" 

"To what end," Blaise said, placing a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Last time he did that…" 

"I know, but honestly. It's been nearly a decade. Surely the Aurors can see that we aren't a threat. For Merlin's fucking sake, he's been living without magic for three years!" 

"I don't live without magic, Pans," he grinned gently. 

"You work without it, that's practically the same." 

"Whatever. I fixed it." 

She sighed at him and drank the rest of her drink in one gulp. “I’m getting another round. Anyone else?”   
  
Draco slept on Theo’s couch that night, a restful sleep despite the shortness of both the sofa and his blankets, surrounded by the knowledge that he was safe and cared for by those around him, even if the safety was occasionally encroached upon by his past.


	5. Chapter 5

**December 5th**

He flew into work late. _Properly_ late. Not André late. Store-was-already-open, Grandma's-already-been-run-over-by-a-reindeer-twice late. He ducked into the back room and threw his apron over his jumper and went to fish his antlers out of the pocket. 

Antlers which were decidedly not there. 

"Fuck," he swore to himself under his breath. 

A tisking sound behind him made him whip around. "Watch your mouth, Mister," Amanda clucked in a passable impression of their boss. "Oooh, yesterday's jumper. Do _tell._ Is he fit?" 

"I'll give you 30 seconds to retract that last question," he scowled, holding out his hand. "I need your extra antlers, Mandy." 

"Tell me who he is first,"

Draco exhaled harshly so he didn't punch her and grit his teeth. "I stayed at my friend's last night because Carl still has not moved out. Happy? Now antlers. Please. Before she sees me." 

"Don't have em," Amanda shrugged. "The pink ones broke. These _are_ my backups." 

She flicked one ear of the Santa-hat-wearing headpiece and it jingled merrily, punctuating Draco's already terrible morning. He held his head in his hands for a moment and made a pained sound. 

“Relax, love,” Amanda soothed, covering his hands with hers for a moment. He looked up. “I covered for your _very_ uncharacteristic tardiness. I told Erica that you had a personal emergency but would only be twenty minutes late. She seemed fine with that. That was only five minutes ago, so if you duck out the shipping doors now, you can run to the pound shop on the corner, get antlers, and be back before she even notices.”   
  
“I—”   
  
“I have the key to the back door. Come on. It’s a good plan. And when you get back, you can _thank_ me by telling me what the new bloke looks like.”   
  
“Amanda, I love you. You are a savour of men and a saint among humans. But I promise you. There. Is no. New. Guy.”   
  
Amanda led him to the door, tucking his recently abandoned coat onto his shoulders again and smirking.   
  
“Oh, I know there isn’t,” she replied as she unlocked the door. “There couldn’t be. You’re still in love with the old one.”   
  
Draco just rolled his eyes and ducked out the door.

* * *

He moved at a half run until he got to the top of the street and into the pound shop. It was early enough in December that there was, thank Merlin, still a rack of horribly tacky headbands with various Christmas-themed ears attached. One day, he planned on getting Erica so trashed again that she explained why she cared so very fucking much about holiday headgear. He knew that if he had tried to go to the floor _sans_ antlers today, she would have only allowed it because they were short-staffed. And even then, he would have been met with such a look of disappointment that he would have spent the entire day feeling like the Grinch of Scrooge who Ruined Christmas. 

“Patience,” he murmured to himself. “She gave you a chance when no one else would.”   
  
He picked a pair of horribly off-coloured green antlers and headed towards the cash. The overly crowded shop had way too many shelves piled into every corner and he was in too much of a bad-morning induced haze to pay much attention; it didn’t surprise him, as a result, when he walked straight into a pram.   
  
“Sorry,” he murmured absentmindedly, skirting the edge and moving to continue. 

“Draco?” a familiar, honey-warm voice asked, sounding shocked.

Draco looked up and was instantly met by bright green eyes and a shocked expression. “Harry,” Draco breathed. 

He hadn’t seen Harry in months, and the last place he’d expected to run into him for the first time since that summer was in a pound shop on the high street of Wycombe on December 5th. He spared a thought for the fact that Harry looked _good_ ; his hair was neatly combed, making the wild curls look intentional rather than insane. He wore a neat shirt, his coat open and his scarf hanging loose. He seemed to have acquired new, stylish frames for his glasses. All of this led Draco to the comforting conclusion that someone was taking care of him. Which, of course, brought his mind back to the _pram_. 

Stalling for his own sake, Draco looked down at the pram and found a small, smiling little girl in it. “Shouldn’t you...uh,” he began.

“Be in Scotland?” Harry finished for him, a small grin working it’s way up to his face. “Yeah, took a few days off to come home and take care of Rose. Wanted Ron and Hermione to get a few days away before the holidays.” 

_Rose_. Draco’s mind spun. He knew, he supposed, in some corner of his mind, that the weasel and spouse had procreated. This must be the product. He consciously prodded himself to respond. He reminded his brain that he _l_ _iked_ babies. This one was sweet, gurgling and babbling at him with a grin. 

"May I?" he asked softly, trying not to gulp. Harry nodded so he stooped down and offered the baby a hand. "Hello, Ms Rose." 

Harry chuckled. “She’ll like that. She hates when people speak in sing-song to her.”   
  
“With her mother, I’m not surprised,” Draco replied, grinning up at Harry before catching himself. “You, uh...keeping well?”   
  
“Yes,” Harry said simply. 

“Right,” Draco said awkwardly. He stood up and gestured with his antlers. “Got to run. I’m late for work.”   
  
“I’m not even going to ask,” Harry said, chuckling again as he manoeuvred the pram out of Draco’s way. “I...tell Pansy I said hi.”   
  
“But not Theo?” Draco snapped. It was uncharitable and he felt petty before he was even finished the sentence. Old arguments were hard to displace. Harry’s face turned dark for a fraction of a second and then he shook his head and sighed. 

“Goodbye, Draco,” he said earnestly, turning to head out the door. 

As Draco placed the antlers on the counter, the woman behind the till smiled a beatific grin at Harry pushing the pram out of the store; Draco couldn’t blame her. Harry Potter, dressed for winter and fit as he ever was, cut a hard figure to ignore while pushing a pram with a smiling baby.   
  
“Old friend?” she said, turning back to Draco.

“Something like that,” he replied, smiling weakly.


	6. Chapter 6

**December 6th**

After his morning discombobulation, Draco spent the rest of his shift on Thursday screwing up. He messed up a simple return so badly that Erica had to come and restart the system, making him feel small and weak and dumb. He did _not_ make simple mistakes. The rest of the day went similarly, with everything slowly spiralling out of control. By the time the 4-6 evening rush began, Draco had been relegated to the backroom to sort through boxes of mittens because no one really trusted him to do his job anymore. He’d gotten a curry and eaten it in the middle of the small shop, not wanting to spend enough time in the kitchen at home to eat takeaway. After, he threw himself to the cinema and watched a terrible holiday remake that he barely remembered, before going home and beelining to his bedroom before Carl could hear him.

It didn’t surprise him, therefore, when he woke up Friday with what was either a cold or near-death flu. He was still deciding when he dialled Erica’s number. 

“You aren’t coming in,” she said flatly the second she picked up.  
  
“Sick,” Draco answered, his ears ringing and his splitting head pounding at the attempt to speak. 

“Thank god,” she replied. “I was worried about you yesterday. It’s okay, I can get George to come in. Be better soon please. I can’t do this month without you.”   
  
Draco smiled lightly to himself; sure, some people had more important or flashier jobs, but he was really good at this one. He liked this one. This one let him be the hero of someone’s day, and that was more than enough these days.

He hung up with Erica and went immediately back to sleep. He woke up to a giant crashing sound that had him flying out of bed.   
  
“Fuck, sorry,” Carl called as Draco came bolting from his room. “Sorry, I was trying to be quiet, I promise.”   
  
“Morning, darling,” Pansy called. She was currently standing beside the large potted plant that had once lived in their master suite and which had, apparently, just crashed off the island and shattered.   
  
“You killed Ferdinand,” Draco joked. 

“Merlin, you sound terrible,” Pansy said sympathetically. “See, I told you he was just sick.”   
  
“What are you two doing?”   
  
“Oh I called Carl on Wednesday night and offered to help him move his stuff,” Pansy said, pretending nonchalance and doing nothing to erase the chill in the room. She waved a hand at the pot. “Collateral, unfortunately.”   
  
“I—” Carl began. He apparently didn’t know what he had been about to say, though, because he stopped speaking and stared at Draco instead.   
  
“So the new flat is ready, then?” Draco asked harshly, already knowing the answer. The new flat had been finished since the last week of November. And they both knew that he knew that. 

“I appreciate your patience as I got the last loose ends tied up,” Carl replied coldly.   
  
Draco nodded and moved to make himself a cup of tea. He found no kettle on the counter.   
  
“Kettle’s yours,” he said, closing his eyes. Carl didn’t respond, instead of picking up a box and escaping through the propped open front door. He pulled a saucepan from under the sink and filled it with water, leaning heavily on the counter as he waited for it to boil.   
  
“We’ll go shopping tomorrow after you’ve had some rest,” Pansy said, patting him on the shoulder. “We’re taking the van down to the place with this run. I’ll stop for lunch on the way back. Want soup?” 

Draco nodded and leaned against her for a moment. She pulled him into a tight hug. 

“Thanks for forcing this,” Draco murmured against her shoulder. 

“Well, we both knew _you_ were never going, and he was still here thinking you might forgive him and take him back.”   
  
“He was not.”   
  
“Draco, my love, he _was_. He said so himself on the phone. I yelled at him.”   
  
“That’s good. He was already scared of you,” Draco laughed. 

“He should be. I’m terrifying.”   
  
“Only sometimes,” Draco agreed. “It’s my favourite thing about you.”   
  
She laughed and released him. “Well, I _am_ scary when I am protecting you, dumbass.”   
  
“You love us.”   
  
“I do.”   
  
“Oh, hey. Before you go. I, uh...ran into Harry yesterday.”   
  
“What?!” she yelled, punching his arm and making him wince. “Draco! Way to bury the lead.”   
  
“That’s not the lead, Pans. When I woke up, you were standing in my kitchen, carrying my ex-boyfriend’s belongings and murdering my favourite plant. That was very _firmly_ the lead.”   
  
She shrugged. “Okay, fine, fair point. You are forgiven because of your cold. So...how did he look?”   
  
Draco sighed, leaning on the counter again and watching the pot start to roll over. “Fucking _perfect_ , obviously.” Pansy leaned backwards next to him and stayed quiet. “Shut up, Pans.”   
  
“Didn’t say a word, my love.” Her pitch was a bit too high and Draco threw an arched eyebrow in her direction that she shrugged off. “I mean, _if_ I were going to say anything, it would only be to remind you that you are single. And from what I hear in the world, _he_ is single. And you know, ‘perfect’.” 

“Pansy,” Draco warned.   
  
“And it’s almost Christmas. And, also—”   
  
“Pansy, it’s not worth it. We have already been down this road.”   
  
“Yeah, well,” she huffed, folding her arms and kicking him gently. “Maybe part of the way down the road, but you never really—”   
  
“Why are you pushing this?” he interrupted, a little annoyed now. “You hate him.”   
  
“I don’t _hate_ him. I just...you were happy. It was, you know...good. It was the first time it was good in so long.”   
  
“It was good for other reasons. I’m still good. You know that, right?”   
  
“Yeah, I do. I can see it. But, still.”   
  
“Draco Malfoy, a perpetual wreck of lonely, morose sadness who needs the help of all his friends?”   
  
“You said it, not me,” she grinned. She turned serious a moment later and for some reason, it made Draco stand up and face her.   
  
“What?”   
  
“Something is up with Theo, right? He won’t talk to me.”   
  
Draco looked down. He was going to punch Theo the next time he saw him. “Yeah, something is up with Theo. But I’m not going to tell you. Not because I don’t want to, because you’ll never forgive me if I start this for you two.”   
  
“Is it going to ruin Christmas?”   
  
Draco chuckled. “Pansy, go get me soup. And then later, talk to your husband. I love you. Thank you for this. I’ll never be able to—”   
  
“Oh my god, shut up. Sap,” she teased. She kissed him on the forehead and walked out the door with another box, looking more graceful in three-inch heeled boots while holding a moving box than most people did on the dance floor. He loved her with every fibre of his being. 

He looked around the flat. At some point in the night, the bits and pieces of Carl that had been there had disappeared. It didn’t look empty, though. It was less claustrophobic, less not-him. For the first time in weeks, Draco remembered that he probably hadn't planned on staying with Carl. 

He took his hodgepodge tea and cuddled into his bed, settling in to watch a movie and stop thinking about anything at all for the rest of the day.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note before this very short chapter. Yes, there is ignoring of canon birthdays here. I was going to add the tag 'ignoring of the long and expensive fanfic that has somehow become canon' but it was too long and clunky. It doesn't make much difference, but still. I do know I did it ;)

**December 7th**

Harry spent Saturday afternoon with his headphones in, blasting _Panic!_ to try and keep himself awake as he furiously cleaned the flat. When he'd agreed to stay the weekend with the baby so Ron and Hermione could go away for two nights for the first time since she was born, he thought he'd been fully aware of what he was signing up for. He had been woefully unprepared. Rose may only be going on a year, but she was in a strange, simultaneous stage where she wasn’t sleeping through the night but spent her days running around like a whirlwind pulling everything off the shelves. 

Well, okay. Harry was aware that this likely wasn’t actually a _stage_ and was more connected to the fact that he was a childless bachelor who was spending his first nights he’d ever been _alone_ with a baby taking care of an infant who was feistier than most, but still. He knew he wasn’t sure he was doing it all that well, but, since Rose had taken more than one nap, had been fed, and everyone was currently alive, he refused to call Hermione. Instead, he worked while she slept and balanced himself on caffeine and pop music. They would be fine. 

Mid-way through sweeping the floor of the kitchen, the charm he’d placed on the lights to alert him that Rose was making noise started flickering and he sighed. He put the broom down and held out his wand to stop the spell. Sure enough, when he pulled his headphones off he heard the baby, not crying, but babbling happily in her crib. When he went to pick her up, she beamed, stood up to reach out to him, and his heart clenched a little painfully. 

The baby had scared him originally. When Hermione and Ron had decided it was time, he had just moved to Hogwarts again, and his life was an utter disaster. He had nothing settled and nothing permanent, and here were his best friends making a life-changing decision and asking him to guard over it should anything happen to them. It should have helped that he had been Teddy’s god-father for nearly six years. 

It didn’t. He scooped Rose up and laughed as she predictably pulled his glasses. He tucked them back on his head and booped her gently on the nose, making her giggle. 

Babies, though adorable, do not make very good conversational company. It had been two days since Harry had run into Draco, a fact that was still confusing him. When he’d stuck Rose’s pram on the train that morning, desperate for a break from the London flat, he hadn’t had a plan in mind. He’d just bought the cheapest off-peak ticket he could find and thought he could get some Christmas shopping done outside the city chaos. Technically, he supposed, he did actually know that Draco’s organization was in Wycombe. He must also have been living there, but he honestly hadn’t remembered it until he’d run into the pram. He hadn’t been able to talk to anyone about the encounter since. 

“Rose,” he said as he sat her down in the booster seat attached to the table and stuck some fish crackers in front of her, much to her delight. “I don’t suppose you can tell me if I’m being ridiculous, can you?”  
  
She looked at him earnestly. Then stuck a cracker in her mouth and gurgled.  
  
“I know. I am. It’s just...he looked so… _good,_ you know? Like maybe he’s finally doing better? I...there’s so much time between here and there. Surely we could—”  
  
Rose gave out a high-pitched squeal. “Abberlok,” she added decisively. 

“Well, I _know_ it didn’t exactly end well. But does that mean I have to now ignore him forever? That hardly seems charitable.”  
  
“Abberlok,” Rose repeated. 

Harry sighed, retrieved the container of apple juice from the fridge, and poured some into a covered cup. He needed to get over this bizarre, pit-of-his-stomach feeling before Ron and Hermione came home. They’d both instantly know something had happened and wouldn’t rest until they got it out of him. Running into Draco had been bound to happen at some point in his life. At the very least, they both ran in a very small circle. He was not going to act like a scorned teenage lover and pine over what might have been. Or, if he was, he certainly wasn’t going to let his friends find out about it. He shook his head to try and clear it of uneasy, blue-grey eyes and silvery hair and handed rose the sippy cup, much to her delight. 

“You know what, Rosie? I think we should go to the park. Sound good?”  
  
He strapped her into her backpack contraption and set out into the brisk afternoon. He didn’t let it stop him for too long that he hadn’t actually _touched_ the pram since that day in High Wycombe. He’d sort out that little conundrum later. 

Much later.


	8. Chapter 8

**December 8**

Arriving back at Hogwarts normally made him feel better, but when Harry stepped out of the floo in the Three Broomsticks and began the snowy, trudging walk back to the castle, an unfamiliar heaviness fell over him.

He stayed late at the London house, eating dinner with the family and then playing with Rose until her bedtime. Watching Hermione fuss over a baby when she returned had warmed him to the core; unlike Ron, who’s caring nature immediately took to parenthood, Hermione had always been difficult to read. Her warmth and love took on different forms and while Harry knew that she never once resented Rose, she didn’t do cuddles and sing-song, and so it was hard sometimes to know how she was enjoying motherhood. This had not been one of those times. They had both rushed from the floo and Hermione had swung the baby into her arms, gushing about how much she had missed her. The weekend had gone well, but it was nice to have them home. Rose — who instantly became a smiling, babbling, gorgeous thing in her mother’s arms — seemed to agree, and the evening had been filled with laughter and delicious Ron-made mac and cheese. 

He supposed that it was the immediate silence of the snow-blanketed hillsides of Scotland that brought about the melancholy. As the wards to the castle fell to let him in, he knew that eight in the evening on a Sunday met the grounds were going to meet him with silence as well. He passed no one on his way to his quarters, a fact which always made him easy in a building where there three hundred loud and boisterous youth resided behind hidden doors and secreted chambers. He half considered going to visit Hagrid, but he knew he should instead complete his plans and course materials for the day. 

He threw down his bag and lit the lamps, sat down to his desk in his office and staring at his notebook for a moment before getting up again and retrieving a bottle of ale that he’d hidden behind his bookshelf. It was almost curfew, so no students were about to show up. He popped the cork and took a deep swig. The spiced liquid went up his nose and made him cough, which made him laugh. It was nearly two minutes later when he realised the tears had sprung up. It shocked him. He hadn’t cried in almost a year, not since the last conversation he’d had with Narcissa Malfoy. 

The dampness sent him back to that summer. Out the window of his tower office, the snow was gently filling in the space between the castle and the lake, erasing the footprints of many students trampling down the ground on the way to the pitch. In the moonlight, he could almost feel the silence, and as though with his permission, the wallowing fully took hold. The pit of his stomach, the pain in his chest. All of it felt fresh, as though it hadn’t been almost a year, almost six months, almost three days since Draco had stood in front of him last. The memory was hard to let in. He almost never let it happen. 

Draco, his hair too short and his robes too pressed, standing in front of him and apologising, over and over. Theo standing beside him, trying to hold his arm and bring him back to the car that was waiting. The moment he gave in, turned away. Harry had tried, then, to get him to reconsider.

 _After everything he's done?_ he'd yelled, making people turn on the street. 

Draco looked at him with so much fury that Harry was tempted to pick up his wand. It _wasn't all him,_ he'd spat.

 _I know that,_ Harry'd whimpered. _I'm sorry._ _Draco, please. Is he worth it?_

A headshake, a sadness. _You still d_ _on’t understand._

_I know. I don’t. Come home._

The last moment, the one where Draco looked back, looked pleadingly, desperately, begging Harry to just _get_ it. To just read what he wasn’t saying in the unseasonably warm, early June dusk. Harry hadn’t. He still didn’t. 

The whirlwind of moving to the school, starting his first full year of teaching and coaching, the baby and the fanfare of his new life had dulled the pain somewhat, but seeing Draco amongst all that tinsel, framed in the light of a mid-morning sunny day, had brought it all back to the surface. Everything felt unfinished, out of his control; he'd had to fight so hard to convince Draco to stay the first time, to have everyone understand why Harry Potter wanted Draco Malfoy. He hadn't even considered that he might have to continue fighting.  
  
He was almost finished the ale by the time he decided he needed to do something about this instead of just staring out the window melodramatically. He was, after all, a proud Gryffindor. He took hold of his courage and found the nicest piece of parchment he owned, writing as neatly as he could manage and wrote a letter. A letter he should have written months ago. 

_Pansy_ , it began. _I need your help. I need you to help me understand._ _I need him to come home._

He sent it before he could consider it was a bad idea, throwing his owl, Marcel, into the night air, much to his delight. His head lightened as the owl disappeared from view, and he was able to finish his lesson plans for the last week before the break. He may be lonely, he may have no idea what had happened to his life, and he may be so lost that he didn't even know how to appropriately handle seeing his ex, but he was also Harry Potter. He had never quite been able to leave well enough alone. And at least now, he had an ally who was similarly incapable of staying out of people's business on his side. 

He was going to fix this. He was going to fix this before Christmas. 


	9. Chapter 9

**December 9th**

Harry tried not to be distracted during his morning flying lesson on Monday. The snow was trying really hard to stick to everything, even in the sky, and the students were grumbling fifteen minutes in. It didn’t help that he didn’t want to be there either. He signalled for them all to land after another five minutes and gathered them all in a clump beside the change rooms. 

“Alright, new plan,” he called above the wind. “Everyone change and put the brooms away properly, and I’ll supervise you in the Great Hall until your next class. If you’re quiet and respectful with your games of snap, I can probably even scare up some cocoa. An elf owes me a favour.”   
  
The second years around him cheered and hurried off to change. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw someone hurrying across the pitch from the other end of the field. 

“Professor!” a tiny voice called as it ran. 

“Jordan?” 

“Professor! Headmistress McGonagall says you’re needed in her office right away.”

“I’m in the middle of a class,” he complained, aware that Jordan Dawes was going to be completely incapable of helping him. Her hair was whipping wildly in the wind and she shrugged at him apologetically. “Alright, alright. Head back in. Tell her I’ll be up in five minutes, once I get these Hufflepuffs into the hall. If she can meet me there…”   
  
Jordan nodded and hurried off. Harry was satisfied. If it had been a real emergency, he reasoned, she’d have come herself or sent an adult who could cover his class.

Shortly later, with twenty twelve-year-olds in tow, he ran into Minerva by the door of the hall. 

“Weather got too bad to fly,” he declared, out of breath. “Had to wait for these guys to change.”   
  
“It’s alright, Potter,” she said gruffly. “Professor Hagrid is inside with a snack and some cocoa. He’ll watch them. You,” she said more quietly as the students filtered past her, “have a personal matter to attend to that arrived in my office an hour ago and would _not_ be dissuaded from waiting there until you arrived. While I admire the gusto, I fear I could not wait until your classes finished for the day.”   
  
Harry winced as her mouth pinched into a tight line. He knew that expression. He would be in trouble for whatever awaited him, at some point if not right now. He smiled wanly as she gestured for him to leave. 

Hurrying up the stairs, he was pretty sure he knew what awaited him in her office. Sure enough, as the gargoyle spun out of the way, he was attacked in an enthusiastic hug that only lasted a second. His head was swiped a moment later. 

“Ow,” he complained meekly.   
  
“Don’t even start,” Pansy chastised. “You waited until _December_ to send me a letter.”   
  
“Well...yes?”   
  
“ _And_ you’re all wet.”   
  
“I was outside. You didn’t have to hug me.”   
  
She glared at him once more before turning on her heel and sitting back to the desk where a pot of tea sat. She threw her wand in his direction and the unpleasant tingle of a drying charm made him shiver and jerk.   
  
“You are a _wizard,_ Potter. At some point, you’ll figure that out, right?” 

He grinned and sat across from her, pouring himself a cup of tea and filling it with milk and sugar as Pansy pursed her lips at him judgmentally. “I missed you,” he laughed.   
  
“You disgust me.”   
  
“See? You missed me too.”   
  
They sat in slightly awkward silence for a moment before Harry cleared his throat.   
  
“You didn’t have to come all the way here,” he said.   
  
“Bullshit. Obviously I did. You wanted me to answer the question of ‘how do I make the most stubborn human being on the planet admit he’s an idiot and go back to the only relationship where he’s ever been happy’ in a _letter_ ?”   
  
“Well,” Harry said in a strangled voice. “I think I just said help me understand, but…”   
  
“Whatever. Sit and listen. I’m going to tell you a very ridiculous story.” 

Harry didn’t reply. He picked up his teacup and sat as still as he was able. Pansy nodded as though she approved and sat back in her chair. 

“Okay, so this all began, technically, when Lucius died.”   
  
“But that was before Draco and I were together?”   
  
“Harry,” Pansy warned. He mimed zipping his lips and sat back. “It all began when Lucius died, and Draco ended up on the streets for a few months—”   
  
“I’m sorry, _what_?” Harry exclaimed. “How can I possibly not—”

Pansy held up a hand. “Potter, don’t you dare interrupt me again. This story is going to take hours if you don’t just wait.” 

She waited for him to settle back from his affronted stance and continued as Harry’s head reeled from pieces of a very complicated puzzle began to fall into place. 

“I _know_ you didn’t know that. Because he doesn’t tell anyone. It is understandably something he’s a little ashamed of. But it’s true. They ended up in Wycombe, staying in the shelter there. He and Theo both. No one knew because both of them had really disappeared into their families after the Reparations.”   
  
“What did Lucius have to do with this?”   
  
Pansy glared and ignored him.

“Blaise found them, brought them to his flat. Called me back from Switzerland and we just got them back on their feet. Narcissa didn’t know he’d been sleeping rough, so when she found out, she did everything in her power to keep it quiet. Secretly gave Draco a bunch of her own inheritance, the one he’d been cut out of, and we never spoke of it again.”

Pansy reached out and touched him on the knee. “Now, I know how you’re going to react to that, and I don’t want to hear it. Pureblood families are...complicated. I don’t think it was really anyone’s fault. Narcissa’s hands were tied by the will, and Draco, as you know, is headstrong.”  
  
Harry rubbed his eyes, pushing his glasses onto the top of his head and exhaling. Draco—new Draco, adult Draco—had always been very paranoid about keeping money out of their lives. Even as their relationship had grown more intense, more solid, he’d never let anything go out of balance; he insisted on paying his own way, always split everything. He was frugal to a point of it annoying Harry, who’d always just assumed he was reading into things because of his own upbringing.   
  
He tried, for a moment, to connect the timelines of what he understood. Draco, when they had first started seeing each other, had refused to come anywhere where they may run into wizards. He’d assumed it was just Draco being skittish and afraid of prejudice. Since those were both valid reasons, he’d just let it go. 

“Does this have anything to do with the bank thing?”   
  
“He told you about the bank thing?” Pansy replied sharply. “Merlin, he really did trust you, didn’t he?”   
  
Harry sighed. “Pansy, you are staying for a while I assume?”   
  
“What?” she said, confused. 

“We are going to continue this conversation in my office. I need a bloody drink.”   
  
“It’s half-eleven,” she replied, quirking a very Slytherin eyebrow at him. Harry just stared back. “Fine, lead the way.”

* * *

By the time they stopped talking, they’d missed lunch.   
  
“So it has literally nothing to do with Carl,” Harry repeated from his position of lying down on his sofa, face pitched into the sofa. 

“Oh, absolutely nothing,” Pansy reiterated. She was currently inverted in the chair, her long hair hitting the carpet as her feet dangled over the backrest. “Carl is a boob. An innocuous boob, but nonetheless.”   
  
“Why, though? Why not just _tell_ me?” he whined.   
  
“I think he believes he’s protecting you.”   
  
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”   
  
“Hey,” she said defensively. “You aren’t angry at _me_ , remember?”   
  
“Right.”   
  
She sat up suddenly and threw a pillow at him. “Okay. Enough of this. You know the whole story. Now we plan. In the meantime, I’m going to go down to Hogsmeade. Want to come?” 

Harry sat up too and stared at her for a moment. “Yeah, fine,” he relented. “Why the hell not.”


	10. Chapter 10

**December 10**

Having decided to walk from the Apparition point on Tottenham Court back to the flat, Pansy had lit a cigarette from the crushed pack she kept in the side pocket of her bag for emergencies. She was therefore quite distracted as she approached the porch, and it wasn’t until the last second that she noticed Theo leaning on the rail, hands stuck in his jacket pocket, looking off into the middle distance. She stubbed out the smoke as she took to the stairs and ignored him as she fished out her keys. 

“Where’ve you been?” he asked gently, his signature quiet tone making her bristle.   
  
“Scotland.”   
  
He nodded as though this was a perfectly reasonable answer and offered his own set of keys.   
  
“ _Why,_ _Pans,_ _were you in Scotland? That is very strange,_ ” she mocked, pitching her voice low and extra posh, as she always did when they started fighting. She was trying to get under his skin, try and pry a reaction from his calm. It infuriated her that he never took the bait.   
  
“Didn’t know you were smoking again,” he replied instead. 

She unlocked the door and slammed her purse onto the hall table, kicking off her shoes and stomping uncharacteristically to the kitchen. 

“I went to talk to a certain old _friend of the family_ ,” she growled, ignoring Theo’s comment. “He wrote to me and I decided that I should tell him the real story, since I, _apparently_ , and the only one with enough balls to do so.”   
  
She threw open the cupboard and started putting plates away from the drying rack. Theo stepped into the kitchen behind her and started to help. She didn’t stop him. 

“ _Pansy, you shouldn’t have meddled,”_ she continued in her Theo voice. “Yes, thank you, darling. I know I shouldn’t have meddled, but I did. Hence the cigarette. Now, are we seriously going to keep doing this?”   
  
“Doing what?” Theo said innocently. She slammed the cupboard he’d just put mugs into and glared at him. 

“Pretending that everything is fine and we don’t have something to talk about? What are you keeping from me, Theodore Aurelius Nott.”   
  
Theo, wisely, winced. His full name was her last straw, the moment before she flew off the handle. He sighed and put down the last plate, gesturing to the kitchen table. She sat calmly and he began to pace. 

“For the record,” he began, “you really shouldn’t have meddled. Draco’s going to be furious.”   
  
“Oh no,” she jeered. “Draco’s never been _furious_ with me before.”   
  
The barest hint of a smile crossed over Theo’s face, and it calmed Pansy’s beating heart significantly. The grave weight of whatever he was about to tell her had not stolen his sense of humour. Suddenly, she was stalwart again. They could handle whatever was about to be thrown their way; they had before, they would again. She took a deep breath and waited. 

“It’s the kitchen,” Theo finally whispered. “They...they got the grant. The board voted. They’re going to use it to hire me as full-time staff.” 

Pansy looked at him for a long moment before she burst out laughing.   
  
“Theo!” she exclaimed, leaping up and throwing her hands up. “That's incredible! That's what you've wanted for two bloody years. Why the fuck have you been avoiding me for two weeks with _good news_ .”   
  
“You don’t understand,” Theo said miserably. She shook her head at him in confusion. “Pansy, I’ll have to live there. In Wycombe. This back and forth won’t work when it’s more than two days a week.”   
  
“Well, obviously, you dolt,” she exhaled in exasperation. She chuckled and went to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Although, we aren’t keeping that ghastly flat. I know you boys are all very attached to it because of the weirdly sentimental _we almost died there_ bullshit, but it’s horrid and we are not living there. We’ll sell this place and buy a nice little terrace, okay?”   
  
Theo looked at her, shock in his features. He opened his mouth for a moment before wrapping her close and kissing her deeply. 

“Theodore, darling,” she muttered, pulling away. “Were you actually worried about asking me to leave London? I’m only here still because of you. You are all such idiots. Seriously. How did you even survive without me.”   
  
Theo leaned down and pulled her hand to his mouth. “Pansy, my love,” he said seriously. “Do you _remember_ what happened when you left us alone in England?”   
  
She smiled sadly and kissed him again. “What the fuck have I done? Draco is going to kill me.”   
  
It was Theo’s turn to laugh. “Well, maybe. But there is also the distinct possibility that you’ve helped them work out their issues for the first time ever.”   
  
“I’ll remind you of that when I am haunting you in the Wycombe flat.”   
  
“Dear Merlin. You’re right," he teased. "We need to sell that place immediately. The last thing it needs is haunting.” 

* * *

“Professor?” Harry said, knocking quietly on the headmistresses classroom door. 

“Hello, Harry,” she said without looking up. 

“I, uh, just wanted to apologise for yesterday,” he said in a rush. “But, um...also…”   
  
“I already cleared your schedule for the rest of the week,” McGonagall interrupted.   
  
“I— wait. Why?”   
  
“Mr Potter,” she intoned, looking up at him finally. “I have been at Hogwarts for a very long time. I was your _teacher_ for a very long time. I am smart enough to know that when the likes of Pansy Parkinson shows up unannounced and proceeds to occupy the time of my Defense teacher for the entire day, it is not going to be good for me to then ignore any request said teacher makes. We have three more days of term. It’s not a big deal. Go take care of what you need to, then have a good break, and I’ll see you in the New Year.”   
  
Harry looked at the ground for a moment, at a loss for words. Ridiculously, he felt his eyes well up.

“Professor,” he tried. 

“It’s alright, Harry,” she said gently. “It’s not been lost on me that something is weighing on your soul these past few weeks. The school will continue to function in your absence, I assure you.”   
  
He smiled weakly at her and nodded. “Thank you,” he said. 

She nodded at him and he silently left. He didn’t know that he deserved her trust, but he would never stop being grateful for it. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A story: I was going to post two chapters today because I missed yesterday, but instead, I'm combining them. It makes more sense. Is this breaking advent rules? Yes. Yes it is. I'm super sorry. If that's hard for you, here's a chapter for December 11th: After Pansy left, Harry spent the whole day packing. He listened to too much sad Christmas music, decided to go to bed early, and woke up far too early for the train he was planning on taking.

For reasons he would never be able to explain to anyone out loud, Harry always took the train when he left Hogwarts. He could convince himself that it was his dislike of the Floo, or that Apparition took too long because of the number of stops you had to take, but deep down, he suspected it had more to do with nostalgia than anything. Arriving at King’s Cross never seemed to lose its appeal, and if he was honest, the fact that it took several hours to get there was comforting to him. It allowed him to prepare for London, for the city of Muggles, for the loss of the bubble of safety that moving between the Castle and Hogsmeade created. It was a strange feeling to realise he didn’t really feel at home in the Muggle world anymore, what with all of his days being surrounded and engulfed with magic as they were. 

He changed into a wool jumper that morning before he even headed down to the station. It was an old one, grey herringbone with fraying cuffs. Technically, it had been the first jumper he’d laid his hands on in his wardrobe, but a long-forgotten argument surfaced the second he pulled it over his head and he had to wonder if there wasn’t something larger at work in the fact that he put it on. Words swam in his head, making him dizzy enough that he sat heavily on his bed to breathe for a moment.

_You are not going out in that._

_What? Why?_

_It’s horrific. People expect a certain level of class from me._

_Last week, you wore a_ tweed poncho _to brunch._

_Excuse you, that poncho is haute couture._

_Yeah, well...so is this jumper. It has a label on it and everything. You just said no Weasley jumpers. This is not a Weasley jumper, and therefore, it is perfectly acceptable._

_When we live together, I’m going to start stealing your jumpers one at a time and burning them._

_….when...when we-_

_I mean, only when you want...you know what, never mind. Let’s go. We’ll be late._

_Draco. Stop. Turn._

_Let go of me, Potter._

_No, wait. Let’s do it. Let’s live together._

* * *

Harry shook his head. If he continued down this track, he’d wind up remembering every conversation that happened in the six months following, and he just didn’t have time. He could wallow on the train. 

Upon arrival, he made a hasty decision and grabbed a room at the Leaky instead of continuing on to Ron and Hermione’s. Something felt fragile and desperate about the fact that he was in London at all. He wasn’t keen to bring them into it quite yet; they’d be comforting and understanding. It was possible they’d even be encouraging, but he couldn’t risk the alternative coming true. Not when he was just starting to let the fact that he still loved Draco wiggle it’s way back into his consciousness. 

The room with his rucksack slung on the bed made him feel extremely lonely, but at least he didn’t have to contend with explaining his feelings. He bundled up against the cold wind that had whipped up around Diagon and headed out into the early evening in search of mulled wine and perhaps a toastie. He wasn’t really hungry, but he needed something to do with his hands. 

Of course, walking out of the tavern into Diagon proper brought him face-to-face with Gringotts. On impulse, he turned and walked himself directly into the cavernous marble bank and waltzed up to the desk. 

“Mr Potter,” the cool voice of the goblin on duty intoned, regarding him with a healthy dose of suspicion that was his regular welcome at the bank. Harry supposed that successfully breaking into a bank and stealing a part of its security system had not led him down a path of unending trust, but it did get a little tiresome having to deal with the Goblin Cohort every time he needed to secure a few galleons. 

“I do not have an appointment,” he replied harshly, skipping the pleasantries that wouldn’t get him anywhere anyway. “But I’d like to speak to someone about securing an inheritance.” 

Barging in without a real plan was a Harry Potter speciality, but even he could admit to himself that he wasn’t sure what he was trying to accomplish here; there was no way he was getting information on another person’s account, especially not an old family. He wasn’t stupid. But at the same time, the glimmer of hope Pansy had provided was making him a bit drunk. He’d spent the last six months in utter misery, convinced he had broken apart the only thing that had ever really started to make sense. If Draco’s fleeing hadn’t really been his fault, if Carl wasn’t really the cause of any of their current unhappiness, then maybe the Goblins would give him what he needed. 

“I’m afraid that will be utterly impossible,” the goblin replied with a malicious grin. “Every advisor has been booked for _weeks_. It is the holidays, Mr Potter. I’m sure you understand. Merriment makes people acutely aware of their own mortality.” 

Harry stood straighter and glared down at the tiny creature. He cleared his throat. “I,” he emphasised. “Will. Wait.”   
  
The goblin looked very affronted, said something under his breath that Harry supposed was not words of praise, but then leapt from his stool and shuffled away. Clearly, he hadn’t been that committed to his role of gatekeeper of the Gringotts front foyer today. Harry glanced around as he moved toward the cold stone benches and out of the way. He remembered only then how very close to Christmas it was. He really needed to get shopping. The floating giant Christmas baubles, red and green candles in the braziers, and the approximately seventeen-foot lit-and-decorated Christmas tree in the middle of the room had not been at the forefront of his mind when he’d entered, and now they flashed in his face like a silent taunt. Christmas at the burrow was definitely coming, regardless of how much he willed it not to. 

He heaved a great sigh and tried to ignore the fact that the tinned music of the seasons played even in _this_ place. He wouldn’t have thought the goblins would stand for such pedestrian acts as Christmas music, but the clear sound of _Nothing Like a Holiday Spell_ was warbling from some unseen speaker. 

_I suppose there’s a reason for this one too?_

_What do you mean?_ _  
_ _  
_ _‘Do you hear what I hear’...is there a_ reason _he wouldn’t be able to hear? What don’t I know about this shepherd boy?_

 _Well, Draco, I mean... it’s about like,_ real _Christmas. I can’t explain it to you. I’m not doing a religion conversation with you ever again. You can ask Hermione tonight._

_Honestly. If the king had just listened to the frigging wind himself, I feel like we could have all been saved three minutes of our lives._

_Come here, my lovely Christmas grump._

_No. Why? I don’t trust you._

_I have a surprise for you._

_Have you seriously put lights in our_ bedroom? 

_Aren’t they wonderful?_

_Yes, fine. They are, actually. They can stay. But only because I like the aesthetic. Not because of some dumb holiday._

_Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dare tell anyone you actually_ like _a Christmas thing. You have a reputation to uphold._

“Harry?” a voice called, shaking him from his ridiculous reminiscence. He shook his head slightly and looked up to find a bemused Bill Weasley standing before him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. I was told a _very difficult customer_ had demanded to see someone immediately. Come on back.”   
  
Bill’s small office was cosy and warm and contained a miniature version of the tree from the lobby. 

“Mental, isn’t it?” Bill chuckled. “Board decided we needed a ‘festive atmosphere’ this year. As though that’s a thing Gringotts has ever been known for. 

“Bill, thanks for talking to me, but I’m not sure you...I don’t know if what I need to know is something you’ll have the right experience with to help me.”   
  
Bill smiled kindly. “That’s fine, Harry. Try me. If I can’t help, I can at least ask around. You’ve come all this way. School doesn’t get out until Friday, so it must be important.”   
  
“Yeah, I...I took a short leave before the holiday.”   
  
Bill waved a hand. “You don’t owe me an explanation, don’t worry. What can I do?”   
  
“I just...generally have some questions. About wills? And inheritance, I suppose?”   
  
“I mean, sure, but you really don’t need to worry about that. I know that you have Sirius’ all sorted, and yours is in trust since after the war. Do you need to make a change?”   
  
“No. Not...now. But say I did. How easy would that be?”   
  
“I mean, generally it’s not hard. You can even leave everything to your pet Hippogriff if you want. We don’t really require much.”   
  
“Even the old families?”   
  
Bill regarded him sharply for a moment before he continued. “Ah. You mean _inheritance_.”   
  
Harry looked away, nodding a little. 

“I mean, just generally.”   
  
“Harry, it’s none of my business, but you know I can’t tell you anything about other clients, right?”   
  
Harry faced Bill with defiance and nodded. Bill sighed. 

“Well, okay. I mean, it is a little more complicated with the old families. There’s still a lot of blood magic and curse-work involved. That’s why I have a job, really. Is there anything specific you need to know?”   
  
“I guess...how do you…is it hard to cut out a benefactor?”   
  
“It depends who—”   
  
“A firstborn male,” Harry interjected quickly.   
  
Bill sighed, steepling his fingers on his desk and not meeting Harry’s eye. “Yes. Usually. That’s one of the more difficult decisions to make, much of the time. Especially with...well, with _the_ families. The Twenty-Eight.”   
  
Harry nodded shortly. “Requires some sort of sacrifice or blood ritual, right?”   
  
“Harry, if you already know, why are you asking?”   
  
“Bill, trust me. I’m not going to do anything. I just had questions. Hey, how easy is it to close an account?”   
  
“As the account owner? Not hard. Proof of identity, written request. Why?”   
  
“Do you think it’s the same for Muggle banks?”   
  
“I mean, I really have no idea, but I can’t imagine it would be that hard.”   
  
Harry nodded again and stood up. “Thanks, Bill.”   
  
“Harry,” he said gently, making Harry pause. “Go see George. He has a big box of things for you. To give to the family.”   
  
“What, why?” Harry laughed.   
  
“Well, you never get shopping done, and he kind of figured this year may be a bit harder, what with the whole—”   
  
“Being left at the altar thing?” Harry teased, feeling just a hint of guilt at Bill’s pained expression. “I promise, it’s fine. That’s kind of him, though. I think I will go see him, actually. I could use some more exploding snap sets for school.”   
  
Bill bid him farewell, still looking a little concerned for his safety, and Harry wandered out into the now completely pitch black street, despite the fact that it was only just dinner time.

* * *

He meandered slowly down the busy street, stopping at many of the Christmastime vendors that always ended up popping up out of nowhere around December 1st. He knew many people despised these tinkers and traders, whose bizarre wears were not usually genuine or particularly useful, but Harry happened to love them. They highlighted the season for him, their carts full to bursting and decorated with tiny lights, occasionally containing real faeries that had been bribed into providing their light for an evening. The general hubbub of Diagon was increased threefold by their presence, and Harry felt lightened by the general atmosphere. 

By the time he actually made it to the bright purple-and-orange corner of number 93, Harry had acquired not only his toastie and his mulled wine, but also had three new pocket broomstick care kits for Ginny, a strange little antique swiss army knife decorated with real fish scales for Arthur, and a feathered hat that was mostly a joke for Ron. He was also significantly happier. 

The shop was rammed with holiday shoppers, but Harry’s grin remained firmly in place as he pushed his way through to the back room, where he knew George would be hiding and organizing while the younger employees took charge of the chaos. It had been Angelina’s only demand when they had expanded to the third store; during December, George took a step back and let other people run things. He actually seemed grateful after the first year, and he’d been much easier to convince ever since. 

“Hare!” George called jovially when he spotted him. “What the heck are you doing here!” 

“Took a few days. Ran into Bill. He said to stop in.”   
  
“That’s because I have a package for you. Lucky I didn’t get around to sending it up to the castle today!”   
  
“You really didn’t have to—”   
  
But George just waved him off and picked up a large box wrapped in purple-and-orange. “Nonsense. You always help everyone else. You’d have ended up in here anyway, and you’re busy. It’s not a big deal. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I spend too much time here.”   
  
“Angelina might have mentioned,” Harry said with a chuckle. “Thanks, George.”   
  
“How long you here? I can’t get away right now, but we should have a drink or something. Catch up. You know, without the two worrying over you.”   
  
Harry smiled gratefully. In the midst of everything in the spring, George had been uncharacteristically quiet. He’d bustled around taking care of the trivial things and gently finding out what Harry needed. While Ron and Hermione fussed, George cared. In the long run, he’d appreciated both, but he’d definitely gained a friend. 

“Any chance you can do breakfast tomorrow? I’m, er, staying the night.”   
  
George winked. “Get that. Babies and mornings on days off, right?”   
  
“Something like that.”   
  
They agreed to meet and Harry left with the box. He spent the rest of his evening eating snacks at the bar and making a list of things he understood and things he still needed to know. For the first time in months, the columns were almost even.


	12. Chapter 12

He slept horribly in Tom’s very lumpy bed and was awake before the sun, let alone early enough for his breakfast with George. He decided to get up and grab a coffee at one of the stands he’d seen with pastries the night before, then go for a stroll in the park just outside Diagon. He’d be plenty hungry again before long, and his head needed to be occupied for a few minutes. He slipped on his coat and gloves, shoving his recently acquired mobile phone into his pocket on impulse. He rarely carried it; there was no signal at school, and when he was home, he was almost always with the four people who had his number. Still, leaving Hogwarts, he always shoved it in his bag out of habit and bringing it with him now made him feel slightly more secure, though he couldn’t exactly say why. 

The street was dead and lifeless, save for the few vendors who did morning wares; the coffee carts, the woman selling the handknit broom covers for winter riding (which he’d almost been tempted to buy, simply because it looked like a giant, broom shaped tissue box with a spot for your hands to tuck into and hold on. January lesson game changer. He’d come back to that later, depending on whether or not he could convince himself he didn’t care how ridiculous it looked). He stretched his arms above his head and yawned in the refreshing morning air. Being out of bed had definitely been what he needed. 

Coffee obtained, he began to languidly walk to the Northern entrance of the road. He’d just Apparate into the park, rather than go through the polava of tapping the bricks and then walking all the way around the block. He was trying, as Pansy had demanded, to remember he was a wizard. 

As he turned the corner to head up the west side-street, a flash of something in the near distance caught his eye. Initially, he’d assumed it was just a rogue coin or wrapper in the cobbles and he’d continued on his way. When it happened again, however, he turned more quickly and saw that the glint was coming off a tall figure in a dark coat. A tall figure in a dark coat, dark trousers, but with shining, too-long, silver-blonde hair. There wasn’t even really thought before Harry leapt to the side of the street and watched the figure get slightly further away, studying it from a distance. There was little doubt about it, though. The furtive, cautious figure was _definitely_ Draco. Except it wasn’t as Harry knew him now; he was carefully sticking to the shadowy sidestreets, headed in the direction of Knockturn, glancing surreptitiously around and folding his form in on himself if he felt he may be noticed. He wasn’t moving quickly. Instead, he seemed to be trying for a faux-languid trot that looked as unnatural as it was. This Draco reminded Harry far more uncomfortably of a sixth year Slytherin than his former fiance. As the man turned the corner and out of Harry’s sight, he made another split-second decision, pulling out his phone and hitting speed dial. 

“Hello?”   
  
“Ron, I am doing a bad thing,” he panted, out of breath more from fear than exertion; fear of what, he could not quite put his finger on. All he knew for sure was that he _was_ following Draco, quiet and slow, trying to stay about ten paces back.  
  
Ron chuckled, misreading the tone of his voice and his shortness of breath. “And you are calling me because…”   
  
“Because I need help.”   
  
“Harry, mate, you know you’re my best friend and all, but I think we need to draw the line at kinky—”  
  
“Ron. No. Stop,” Harry insisted quietly, trying not to draw attention. “Listen, Can you meet me in Diagon? Like, right now?”   
  
“Um…I mean…”   
  
Harry briefly winced, catching sight of Draco again and backing into a wall. “You have the baby,” he replied, remembering that this was _not_ sixth year and Ron was _not_ going to drop everything to come to rescue him from his own stupidity.  
  
“I have the baby,” Ron repeated miserably.  
  
“Okay, don’t worry.”   
  
“Well, I mean...hang on. Is this a baby accessible bad thing?”   
  
“Definitely not.”   
  
“Sorry, Hare. You can say it,” Ron sighed. “I was more fun before the baby. It’s okay. I know.”   
  
“I would never say that because I love Rose with every fibre of my being. I would die for her,” Harry insisted. “Besides, I don’t have to say it because you just did.”   
  
“Oy,” Ron whined, no feeling behind his admonishment. 

“Look. It’s fine. Just...maybe if you don’t hear from me in like an hour, send for an Auror?”   
  
“Harry, what the fuck are you doing?”   
  
“I’ll most likely be fine,” he said in an unconvincingly chipper voice, still careening around corners as quickly as he could without drawing attention. When Draco _did_ turn down Knockturn, Harry almost dropped the phone as Ron continued to sputter. “Got to go,” he hissed.   
  
“Harry!” Ron protested.   
  
He hung up. 

Knockturn was as unpleasant as it had always been. The tall, crooked buildings let in no light, and the unnecessary awnings cast even more unnatural shadows than the rooflines themselves. Almost nothing was signed, and if it was, it was with an unintelligible name like _Merriweather Promises_ and of course, _Borgin and Burkes_. Harry supposed that if you were going to run a business of questionable practices, then high street advertisements were hardly going to be the norm. Still, it would have been nice to have just a bit of light. 

The cramped corners made it harder for him to pretend he wasn’t following Draco and instead, he just decided not to pretend. 

“Draco,” he called, more deeply than loudly, hoping that his tried and true ‘I’m Harry Potter’ teacher voice would be enough to cause him to pause. 

It was. Draco turned around slowly and glared at him; the maliciousness in his face was from another time as well, so much so that it almost took him aback. 

“What are you doing in London?” he asked Draco, ignoring the feeling in the pit of the stomach that he should really be drawing his wand. Throwing curses at each other was hardly the long term plan, and it was a risky move to draw a wand on another wizard in the middle of the day on a street not known for thinking before casting. 

“None of your business,” Draco clipped, his crisp RP accent coming through more pronounced than usual and his tone cold and detached. “I could very well ask you the same thing, _Potter_.” 

Knowing what he did now, his anger and sadness back in full swing, the surname bristled and Harry stood at full attention for a moment as the anger swelled. All at once, however, he fell apart again. 

“You know what, Draco. No. I don’t want to do this. I just want to… I don’t know. Talk?”   
  
“Why would I want to talk?” Draco spat. 

“I—” Harry started. “Fine. Okay. Nevermind then, I guess.”   
  
“Listen, Potter. It’s over. Let it go.”   
  
“Pansy and I spoke Draco. I know more. Don’t be mad at her. It wasn’t her fault.”   
  
“Listen. I don’t know what Pansy told you, but that was none of her business.”   
  
“Yeah,” Harry replied, rubbing his eyes and nodding. “Yeah, okay, fine.”   
  
He turned and walked away, forcing one foot in front of the other until he was met with the relative warmth and brightness of the main road. It was getting busier as the morning progressed, and he leaned against the cold brick of the corner for a moment, breathing heavily. He pulled out his phone and dialled a number he hadn’t used in a very long time. 

“Harry?” Pansy said, a note of genuine surprise in her voice.   
  
“Hey, sorry to bug you so early. I just wanted to warn you that Draco knows we talked.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“I just ran into him in Diagon and...well, okay, I sort of followed him, but the point is, he knows.”   
  
“Harry, what on earth are you on about,” Pansy replied, sounding just a tad exasperated. “Draco isn’t in Diagon. He’s right here. I’m looking at him. He’s at work, in the store.”   
  
“What?” Harry said, the blood draining from his head and making him dizzy. “No, he isn’t.”   
  
“He is, I swear. Right now, he’s shoving a half a mannequin into a very ugly reindeer sweater. Why would I lie about this.”   
  
Harry had already pushed himself off the wall and was at a half-jog back into Knockturn. As he had known would be the case, Draco was nowhere on the street. 

“Pansy, can you Disapparate out of Knockturn?”   
  
“No, course not.”   
  
“Yeah. Didn’t think so.”   
  
“Harry, are you alright? Do you need someone to come get you?”   
  
But Harry had already hung up. He was jogging out into the street to get back to an Apparition point. He needed to get himself to High Wycombe.


	13. Chapter 13

Ignoring the fact that he’d completely missed breakfast with George, Harry headed straight for Wycombe. Pansy was leaning against the window of the shop when Harry finally made his way down the high street. He’d landed in the middle of a very familiar alleyway and was not sure how his brain felt about the Apparition. He’d stood for a moment, making sure he wasn’t about to throw up.

It was hard to see this place again; he’d never liked it here, not even when he had visited Draco at the beginning of their relationship, picking him up from work and heading out for dinner. He’d never gone to the flat he lived in. They’d always gone back to London, which had always just been about them avoiding the people they knew. London felt more anonymous. Still, Wycombe contained a piece of them, a piece of who they were. Who they could still be? It made Harry’s head spin. 

When she noticed him, Pansy pushed off the window and headed him off, her heeled boots and burgundy, high-collared peacoat cutting an intimidating line, as she always had. He had grown to love Pansy Parkinson. She was fiercely defensive, terrible at reading tone, and, when you were on her good side, your greatest champion in any kind of fight. Formidable, but hilarious. He liked Theo well enough, but Pansy had wormed her way into his heart. It may not have been that long since he’d been allowed to see her regularly, but he felt the ache now, having seen her twice in one week. 

“I got you a cookie. Best bakery in town,” she said, handing him a paper bag that he took mechanically. “Snowman, for the child-man I know and love.”  
  
“I just need to talk to him, Pansy,” Harry insisted, trying to push past her. She used her significant height against him, placing a hand on his chest and stopping him.  
  
“Potter. Chill. He’s at work. You have to meet him tomorrow at my flat. Do you remember where I live? He’s agreed to meet you. He’s safe for today, but it’s so busy at this time of year. You may not storm into a Muggle establishment and start yelling at your ex about Polyjuiced Doppelgangers.” She glared at him with a raised eyebrow and held him still until he let his body relax. She patted him gently then. “Come. Lean. It’s a very comfy wall. Eat your cookie.”  
  
Harry allowed himself to be led to the wall and opened the bag, breaking off the head and shoving in his mouth. “Wasmt expecting gingerbwed,” he mumbled with a small, closed-mouth smirk. 

“See you tomorrow, Harry. Go home.”  
  
He spent the rest of the day in his room at the pub, trying and failing to fall asleep in the middle of the day. 

* * *

**December 14**

Pansy and Theo’s flat had not changed at all. Which made sense. Despite how it currently felt, it really hadn’t been that long. Most happy people didn’t shift their lives all that much over the course of one season. He knocked a little too hard and found Theo behind it when it opened.  
  
“Hi,” he said unceremoniously, moving to the side and letting Harry into the entry.  
  
“Hi, Hare!” Pansy called, rushing down from the second floor of the old Victorian. She was in her stocking feet, but her coat was on and a scarf was slung around her neck. 

“He’s going to meet us at the park. Something about the fresh air,” she waved, slipping her feet into boots that had appeared from out of nowhere. Harry nodded and followed her out the door again. 

They walked side by side for a block or two before she wrapped her arm through his and sighed.

“He’s okay, you know,” Pansy said quietly. “It kind of sucks.”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry replied. “It does. Especially since, you know, I’m _not_.”

“I can tell,” she said sympathetically. “In all fairness, I think he may have just hit his limit for how shitty he can feel. He doesn’t have any sense of self-preservation anymore. He just seems to decide he deserves whatever comes his way and deals with it. He never…Carl wasn’t really anything.”  
  
“He was more than a nothing, though. He lived with him, Pansy.”  
  
“I know, but…”  
  
“It’s okay. I’m just here to deal with this.”  
  
“Harry?” she questioned. “Listen, don’t get angry, but... are you sure you saw what you saw?”  
  
“That’s just what I was going to ask,” Draco said gruffly as he approached from the other direction. He gestured for them to follow as he walked into the gate of a small parkette. He turned them into a small green space with a hideous fountain that was empty for the winter and sat on the edge. Harry stood over him as Pansy began to pace. 

“So, you saw me,” he said to Harry. 

“I _talked_ to you. You were a dick, but I did talk to you.”  
  
Draco smirked and Harry’s stomach dropped to his knees inconveniently. He sighed.  
  
“Carl moved out,” Draco said by way of reply, as though that is what they had been talking about. 

“I already told him that,” Pansy interjected. “Look, you two. Focus. We can deal with you in a minute. Harry, you’re _sure_ it was him.”  
  
“He called me Potter. He looked... not quite right, now that I know it wasn’t you. He looked like old you. Sixth year you.” 

Draco nodded, as though Harry was making perfect sense.  
  
“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Draco said, squinting into the sun up at Pansy. 

“It definitely does. It’s not like he doesn’t have access to your _hair_ , which is fucking terrible, by the way.”  
  
“Yes, well,” Draco waved, nodding at Harry and looking meaningfully at Pansy. “Important things first.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, no. I already told him everything,”

“ _Pansy_ ,” Harry and Draco hissed simultaneously.  
  
“Whatever, you two,” she spat angrily. “I’m not being in the middle of this anymore. You didn’t just hurt each other with all that nonsense in the spring.”  
  
Harry and Draco glanced at each other, sadness and guilt echoed in both their faces. Pansy didn’t miss it and sighed heavily.  
  
“It’s only been six months, you know!” she announced. “If you wanted to just… you know—” she waved her hands indiscriminately between them. “Everyone would just go along with it. We’d be happy, actually!”  
  
“Do you know who is impersonating you?” Harry asked, ignoring Pansy. He knew he sounded a bit clipped, but he was protecting himself.  
  
“Yes,” Draco replied, just as shortly.  
  
“Merlin fucking _soggy bottomed Christ_ , I hate both of you,” Pansy shouted. “It’s the fourteenth! The fucking Fourteenth of Fucking December. That's what day it is. Okay? Okay. Now. I am leaving, and you two are talking. Fuck.”  
  
Sure enough, she stormed away from the fountain, and Harry and Draco were left with the audience of a few scattered pigeons, and one very startled elderly couple who were holding some birdseed. Accidentally catching his eye, Draco and Harry burst into a short laugh that died before it could take hold. Harry cleared his throat.  
  
“So. This person. I imagine you’ve tried reporting them?”  
  
Draco nodded. “Did you remember it was the fourteenth?”  
  
Taken aback by the change in topic, Harry’s eyes snapped to Draco’s. He looked back, face open and expectant, waiting for an answer that felt charged and important. He shook his head but didn’t try to speak as his voice caught in his throat.  
  
“Why are you here, Harry?”  
  
“What? Because I saw you in—”  
  
“Yeah, no, I know that part. But why were you _in_ Diagon. Shouldn’t you still be at school? The term only just broke up. So why were you there to talk to this mysterious not-me yesterday morning.”  
  
Harry turned away from the fountain and watched the older couple walk away.  
  
“No,” he said quietly. “I did not remember it was the fourteenth.”

* * *

**Two Years Earlier**

“Right, that’s me done for the day,” Draco whined, flopping onto the cushions on the floor beside Harry. “I can’t believe the sofa didn’t arrive on time.”  
  
Harry laughed, snuggling closer to Draco and drawing him under an arm. “I can. This flat is cursed.”  
  
“Don’t. The flat will start believing you,” Draco teased, resting his head back against Harry’s shoulders. “I like it anyway,” he finished loudly.  
  
“Me too,” Harry said seriously. Draco turned one eye to him and burst out laughing. “What?”  
  
“Nothing. Love you. You’re a giant sap and I love you.”  
  
“Well...good. Because you’re stuck with me now. This flat is in both our names.”  
  
“Yeah, I was going to ask about that, but then in the chaos of the paperwork, I never did. How did you manage that? My bank accounts and credit and—”  
  
“That poor Muggle agent. He’d had three couples move in and then immediately move out. He was so very desperate to get it off his hands.”  
  
“Awww, but that’s so sad. Angelo is such a lovely little ghost,” Draco laughed.  
  
“Muggles don’t see them. He was annoyed.”

Draco chuckled again and wrapped an arm around Harry. He was nuzzling, nestled and content. It made Harry sigh a happy sigh. This had been so many months of planning, this moment on their eventual-living room floor, no furniture and boxes creating a wall within the already small room. They had the kettle, mugs, and tea. That was it. Everything else from their newly combined lives sat in a tangled maze. Whoever had decided they should move right before Christmas was absolutely mental.  
  
“That’d be you,” Draco muttered sleepily.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You asked who decided to move eleven days before Christmas,” Draco replied. “Just reminding you that was you.”  
  
“Yeah, well.”  
  
Harry reached out a very intentionally placed free arm and managed to just reach the plug available. Draco’s eyes were closed, but apparently, the change in light was just enough that he opened one and looked up. 

“So, when I said, ‘see if you can find the plates’, you heard, ‘spend time setting up a set of fairy lights while Draco negotiates the bedroom furniture with the movers’?” Draco said with a smirk.  
  
“Yeah, well. You broke my lamp.”  
  
“It was a terrible lamp,” Draco said for the tenth time that day. He looked at the lights that Harry had magically stuck in an arc around the makeshift sofa. “Fine. It’s nice.”  
  
“That’s because you are a sucker for twinkle lights. Literally the most tawdry thing about you and I love it.”  
  
Draco batted at Harry’s chest with no force and glanced up at the lights again. “It’s because they’re so cheery,” he insisted. 

Harry smiled and reached beneath the cushion. He dropped the box in Draco’s lap and smiled when Draco arched an annoyed eyebrow. 

“We said no gifts because of the moving costs,” Draco said irritably.  
  
“Not a gift, I promise. Open it, then yell, okay? One step of anger at a time.”  
  
Draco sighed and pushed the wrapping off the box. He levelled the smaller box inside onto his palm and glared at Harry.  
  
“Potter, you didn’t fucking—”  
  
“Yeah, look, I know, okay? You said it was too complicated, too much paperwork with the Ministry. We don’t have to do it officially if you don’t want to, but like—I’m done, Draco. I don’t want to be with anyone else. So just...marry me? Okay? We can work out the rest.”  
  
“You always say ‘work out the rest’ in the same tone you say a spell, do you know that?” Draco sighed and sat up off of Harry’s shoulder, holding the ring box as though it might explode. Harry reached over and opened it for him, showing off the black brushed tungsten-and-rose-gold ring that was inside. Draco exhaled and lifted the ring from the box, inspecting it.  
  
“You can decide later. It’s been a long day. I just...I didn’t want it sitting in the air. You are allowed to say no, and it can change nothing. I just figured if we were going to be here, living this life together—”  
  
“Okay,” Draco murmured, sounding like he’d choked off the air from his own lungs.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Okay,” Draco said a bit more firmly. “Fine. I want to. You win.”  
  
He placed the ring on his own finger before Harry got the chance, and the December 14th moving day would become the laughing stock of all their friends, full of accusations about planned proposals and cheesy photos. None of it was true, of course, but the date would linger as they planned a wedding and as they planned a life. It became an anniversary that they had never once had before. 


	14. Chapter 14

After the park and Harry's hundred-yard stares that hurt in a place Draco had long since locked away permanently, he'd had to practically run to his closing shift. Once there, the Friday night fun of putting up the new ad campaign had left him little room to think. Even with Amanda asking what was wrong with him approximately seven hundred times before he'd even gone on break, he didn't have time to process. 

When he finally admitted to her that he'd been with Harry that morning, over a stolen cigarette that he wouldn't have to lie to anyone about, she had been perfectly Amanda about it. 

"Oh my God, I _knew_ you were sleeping with someone," she'd squealed, despite his protests that it was far more complicated than that. 

Eventually, he'd just stopped fighting and let her decide he could 'keep his secrets'. It would be much easier, after all, if he'd just made up with his finance and fallen into bed again. Impossible dreams and the like. Not for the first time in the past few years, he envied Amanda's beautiful simplicity; in her mind, despite the hardships her life had contained, things were still reasonable. There was grey between black and white, but it didn't have to contain quite as many shades. Muggle treachery was serious, he knew that. He saw it every day he spent at the shelter. The things people could do to each other knew no bounds. Evil and cruelty didn't require magic to occur, even between families. 

Still, Draco felt he deserved the argument that magic made things just a little bit messier and more painful. 

He spent the entire second half of his evening pretending he _wasn't_ daydreaming about a world in which Harry forgave him and his family for the fourth, fifth, hundredth time. He pretended that the look he'd seen on Harry's face that morning, the one full of hope and lust, had been real. He wished that Harry had all the information, because he himself had told even Pansy all the information. But it was just a fantasy. 

If Harry had all the information, he'd never be standing across from Draco in any space. He'd never gain trust again. 

Not even the walk through the twinkle lights to the flat helped distract him, and so when he saw Carl lingering against the door jamb in the corridor, he didn't bother disguising his sigh of frustration. 

"You can't be here," Draco hissed. "We've talked about this." 

When Carl's anguished expression came into full light, a wave of pity-filled guilt and affection rushed through him so fast, he felt a little nauseated. He shook his head firmly. 

"Carl, seriously. You need to go. This can't…you can't keep doing this." 

"I just needed to see you," he whispered, "to ask you something." 

Draco sighed again, unlocked the door and ushered him inside. "Well?" he prompted. "What is it?" 

"I just don't understand," Carl began miserably. "I _miss_ you. How can that be possible?"

"You already know the answer to that."

"But it's been _weeks_." 

"Yes, well, I already told you. It's going to be stronger for you. Without magic, you can't feel where it was intruding. It's going to take some time to sift through what was real for you. Which is why," Draco reiterated. "You. Can't. Be. Here. You're making this really hard. For both of us." 

Carl threw his hands up angrily. "Well exactly! That's my _point_! How can it have just been the spell if we both feel—" 

"Carl," Draco interrupted, a hand flying to his hair, instinctually shoving it back in a habit he'd picked up while arguing with Harry. He took a deep breath. 

"Carl," he tried more calmly. "It was the Compulsion. You don't actually want to be with me. I don't actually want to be with you. We were manipulated. I was engaged to another man. A man I _love._ How are you not furious?" 

Rather than invoking anger as Draco had been hoping, Carl's face fell even further; suddenly Draco was horrified he was going to cry. He wasn't sure his convictions could take that tonight.

"You had more to lose," Carl said sadly. "I think that's why. It might not have been real, but you and I were one of the better things that happened to my life. I think I'm having a hard time letting that go. Even if it was all a…spell."

The word seemed to cause him pain, and Draco understood. The wound of the truth was still raw. It made him wince too, and the word wasn't brand new to his vocabulary. No matter how you spun it, _compulsion_ was a dirty word. 

"You're looking at it all wrong," Draco insisted. "This is where your life starts. No more lies. No more hold over you. Carl, they can't keep you chained up anymore."

Carl looked dubious. 

Draco shook his head, moving toward the door and satisfied when Carl followed.

"I've been there, you know," he continued. "it's scary but trust me, it's going to be fine. But first, we both need to move on. Did you call that friend of mine I told you to?" 

"That Luna something? Not yet."

"Call her he insisted she can help explain. You have your free will back, Carl. Use it to get some answers." 

Carl opened his mouth as if to respond, then closed it again. "Compulsion," he said with finality. 

Draco nodded. "I'm sorry, but yes. Compulsion." 

"Right. Okay. G'night."

When he closed the door, it felt like it was the end. For the first time in weeks, something felt completed and almost okay. 


	15. Chapter 15

Three Years Earlier 

Lucius Malfoy had a plan. Even from Azkaban, he would find a way to secure the happiness of his son and wife. If fighting for what had turned out to be the losing side had taught him nothing else, he had learned that you could not trust anyone else with your life. The meeting he was about to have had cost him dearly; finances were only the beginning. His happiest memories—his wedding, the day he’d been accepted at the Ministry, Draco’s birth—had become the food to the foul creatures that he now regretted allowing into the school. 

Still, the sacrifice had bought him an hour with the Mage. He cursed the day he’d changed his will, a petty and shortsighted act made on the day that Draco had informed his parents that he refused to get married and would not have a child, even if his life depended on it. That day, Lucius had the papers drawn up, making it impossible for Draco to inherit anything without a legal spouse; the gender did not matter all that much in the end. He had hoped that informing Draco would force the issue, but he’d been arrested before he could undo what he had done. 

Amiecarel Avery was the perfect solution; an Avery, so the blood would stay pure and, more importantly, the money would stay in the true families. But a squib, and so easy to hide and easier to deal with being heirless. No one wanted more squibs, anyway; after Draco, the family ties would pass down through the next kin, likely one of Avery’s sisters. Lucius could live with that. After all, it was his own fault that the Malfoy name held little sway in the world anymore. 

The Mage was not actually one person, as Lucius had always assumed in the tales he heard. Instead, they were a secret society whose council was made up of old world witches and wizards who still followed the old rules. Rules-based on serving _Magic_ and _Magic-users_ above all else. The small, squat representative that arrived on his appointed day did not garner Lucius’ confidence and he had taken to repeating everything the man told him. 

“A _Compulsion_?” he sneered, to no effect. He had to admit that his cold, austere sneers were somewhat lacking these days. Something about the grey lighting, the uniform, his limp, unkempt hair. 

The man sitting on the cold bench across from him arched a judgemental brow. “Yes. A compulsion. Standard spell. It will work. Though I have to warn you, the spell is most effective when the situation of the meeting occurs naturally. We can only nudge them in the same direction. It could be several months before they end up...under effects.” 

“It won’t be that long," Lucius said, shaking his head. "I can help things along. I will have my wife—”  
  
“You will never speak of this to her. You jeopardize the very existence of this organisation if you do. Please tell me I do not need to remove the memory of my being here?”   
  
The flash of fear that crossed his mind was embarrassing, so instead, Lucius simply shook his head slowly. The man nodded, opened his briefcase, and took out a form. After glancing around fervently for a moment to double-check for the guards or the dementors, both of whom were absent thanks to a tidy sum paid by Narcissa, he slid a contract through the bars. The quill that followed was ostentatious and irritating, but Lucius signed quickly without reading too closely. He knew what was there already; unrestricted access to the house for both the council. A commitment to three years of back pay to The Mage through his wife’s accounts. Power of Attorney passed to Marica and Josiah Avery indefinitely, and a new clause in his will that stated Draco was only to inherit at the time of his death. 

He handed the paper back to the man, who simply nodded and closed his briefcase again, walking away.   
  
When the pain began in Lucius’ lower back less than an hour later, he never once considered that he should have read the contract with slightly more care.


	16. Chapter 16

Draco hadn’t been anywhere near Ron and Hermione’s London flat since that last day in July, where Carl had picked him up in an obnoxious limousine and swept him off to Kent for the weekend. The neat white fence and garden boxes that concealed their bins made him inhale sharply. He really wasn’t sure he was ready to do this. He trudged forward, wincing as the cab drove away and stranded him from changing his mind, but he rapped loudly at the door before he could lose his bravery. 

When it opened, Hermione had the baby girl propped on her hip and her hair bundled on her head. Hermione Granger, the Mother, was not a tag he’d ever really considered for her. She looked content enough, he supposed, but it was an obvious change unlike it was for some families. As she registered that it was him, her mouth fell open into an exaggerated ‘O’ and she took an involuntary step back. Many things became clear to him at once; first, Harry had not informed his best friends about their recent reconnections. Which meant she had not been filled in on the information Pansy had disclosed without Draco’s permission. 

Which, of course, also meant that this was the first time Hermione was seeing him since he’d managed to not show up to his own wedding and left her and Ron to pick up the pieces. His mind raced as he tried to determine how exactly he was going to deal with this. 

“Before you yell at me,” he began, raising his hands in a quelling fashion and taking a step back to try and seem less threatening. “There’s information you don’t have.”  
  
She glared at him and readjusted the baby. He knew that was the way to get her; Hermione, without information, was like a rabid dog. Unable to let it lie. She nodded once and stepped back, leaving a small gap for him to step into the entryway.  
  
“Come in and close the door. The baby is sick,” she declared, clipped tone and intolerance dripping from her. Clearly, the invitation inside was not a surrender, and Draco did not treat it as one.  
  
He gently closed the door and stood with his arms at his side until she gestured for him to continue. 

“I saw Harry a few days ago. We...talked. About a lot of things. Is he here?” She stared him down long enough that he cleared his throat and continued. “Listen, I know I owe you an explanation, too, but I need to talk to _him_ first. Surely you can...at least understand that, even if you don’t agree.”  
  
“I don’t even _believe_ you, Malfoy!” she suddenly snapped. “Harry’s been here since Saturday and he made no mention of you.”  
  
“He’s been in _London_ since Thursday. He stayed in Diagon. Which was all after I ran into him in Wycombe. Listen, Hermione. He’s here? Can you please tell him I need to speak to him. I...Pansy didn’t tell him everything.”  
  
“I’m not sure I want to let you see him,” she sniffed crisply. Rose giggled a little at her hip and, involuntarily, Draco smiled at her. Hermione seemed to soften then, just the slightest bit. “Her name is Rose,” she offered quietly, as though she couldn’t control the pride she felt.  
  
“I know. I met her when she was with Harry that weekend.”  
  
Hermione’s eyes narrowed, taking stock of his story and seeming to try and line up all the evidence she had available to her. 

Hermione sighed. “Draco,” she said imploringly. “If I go get him, are you going to make things worse for him? For me? Because honestly, it’s Christmas. I’d like to just...not do that. If this is going to cause more pain for anyone in this house — _anyone_ — then it can wait until after the holidays.”  
  
Draco looked long and hard at her. She stared right back at him. Even when he had been at his most threatening, she had always been capable of holding his gaze. Once, early in their relationship, Harry had dragged him to a games night at her house. They'd played a game of risk where he'd tried to bluff his way through. Instead, he'd ended up locked in a deadly staring contest that she eventually won. Of course, unlike today, she'd also burst out laughing and declared him acceptably ridiculous to be dating Harry. 

He wasn't anticipating any such permissions today. Finally, he moved his eyes to the floor. 

"Hermione," he whispered. "I don't expect forgiveness. I'm honestly not sure he'll even see me. But I have to try. I have to — he needs to know what happened. Because I—" 

"Don't say it. I can see it on your face. Don't say it. Not to me. Save it. It had better be a fucking amazing story, Malfoy." 

"So…you'll get him?" 

Hermione looked unhappily at the stairs to her right. "He actually isn't here. I promise you. He's at Neville’s today." 

"Oh," Draco replied, letting himself collapse a little bit.

"You know what, though? You owe me an explanation to. I know what you said, but you owe me the story as much as you owe it to him. We were just about to have tea. Boots off. Cost there. Let's go." 

He waited until Hermione had padded off, muttering something to rose in that soft mama tone that was universally comforting, and then he gently toed off his boots and followed. She was right. He owed her _some_ sort of explanation. And if nothing else, it could prepare him for facing Harry. 

Facing Harry and telling him that they belonged together. 


	17. Chapter 17

**December 18**

Rose was asleep on his chest by the time he’d finished telling her the whole story. He’d picked her up on instinct when Hermione had been in the kitchen making tea, and she’d calmed immediately. Her presence relaxed him so she’d been there ever since.   
  
“Draco,” Hermione murmured when he had finished, quietly covering her face where he knew she was crying. “I want to say, why didn’t you tell us, but then— you couldn’t have, could you?” 

“I’ve only known for a few weeks. And he just moved out last week. I swear, I had no idea. I didn’t even know _how_ to explain it. I’m so, so—”   
  
“Don’t you dare apologise,” she hissed. “For the first time ever, I am fully confident that this is not your fault. Merlin. How far we’ve come, Draco Malfoy?”   
  
“What, you mean because not even a year ago you told me that you were hesitant to trust me with Harry’s happiness, despite having agreed to stand up for him at the wedding?”   
  
“That, and...oh god, Draco. The things I’ve said about you in the past six months. I was _horrible_.”   
  
Draco chuckled quietly. “Based on my behaviour, only _saying_ horrible things about me is a mercy.”   
  
“Still.”   
  
“Hermione, I refuse to let you feel guilty for this,” he insisted. “Honest question, though...do you think I have any hope of him forgiving me?”   
  
“Don’t be foolish, you idiot. This is Harry. He doesn’t hold a grudge.”   
  
“I mean, I feel like he does.”   
  
“Draco. He once went from believing his godfather had murdered his parents to having the man be his very best friend within a matter of days. You give him all the information and he forgives you. It’s what he does. I feel like maybe he isn’t capable of throwing away love. You may have to give him some time. Not expect to be back in a wedding suit any time soon, but still.” She regarded him across from her on the couch. “I’m going to take a little longer. I know it wasn’t technically _you_ , but I am still pretty furious.”   
  
“That’s understandable.”   
  
“I’ll tell you one thing, though. You keep holding my baby like that, you have a pretty good chance bringing both me _and_ Harry around pretty quickly.”   
  
Draco smiled blandly, smoothing back Rose’s hair. 

“You’re a natural,” she continued. “Draco, Harry will be back late tonight. I think I should put you up in the guest room and you can talk to him first thing. Okay?”   
  
“Hermione, I can’t impose on you like that the week before—”   
  
“Best Christmas present you could give anyone this year is by sorting out this mess as soon as possible. It has been a miserable few seasons.”   
  
Draco nodded and stood up slowly, shifting Rose across his body as he handed her to Hermione.   
  
“I know what you said, but I assure you, if he were still alive, I’d kill him.”   
  
Draco snorted and shook his head. “I might not stop you, to be honest.”

* * *

Harry’s return from Neville’s was a bit rocky; he normally didn’t Apparate when he’d had more than one drink, but truthfully, he was eager to be back in his bed at Hermione and Ron’s, snuggled down in the warmth. He loved Neville, so he hadn’t cancelled their plans, but he was in no mood to continue socialising. He had his answers now; even with all the information, Draco was out. Draco didn’t want him anymore. That was fine, he’d known it for months, but something about knowing that he could have asked Harry for help and hadn’t made it feel much more final. 

He stumbled into the front door and locked it behind him as quietly as he could. Ron surprised him by grunting a hello from the sofa in the living room.   
  
“Why are you still up?” he queried, genuinely surprised.   
  
“Rose was up. Can’t fall back to sleep. But that’s fine. Now I can tell you in person. You’ll have to take the sofa tonight. There’s been, an...unexpected guest.”   
  
“No worries,” Harry agreed easily. It was not uncommon for him to be shunted out of the bed for any number of Weasley relatives. There were all kinds of promises about ‘when they moved into the house’ and him having his own room, but the sofa bed wasn’t so bad and it honestly didn’t bother him. “Who is it?” he asked. 

“I...I don’t think I’m supposed to say.”   
  
Intrigued though he was, Harry shrugged. He was exhausted and a little drunk, and he just wanted to sleep. “Whatever,” he announced. “Go to sleep, Ron. You’re on my bed.”   
  
Ron nodded and stood up. “Hare. You know I love you, right? And that, if I thought something wasn’t any good for you, I’d tell you?”   
  
Harry chuckled. “Urgh, yeah, mate. You always have. Loudly. And with gusto. What the hell are you on about?”   
  
“Nothing. Just, remember that. If I thought it was a bad idea, I’d tell you.”   
  
Harry tilted his head, puzzled, but nodded. Ron looked grave. “Everything okay, Ron?”   
  
“Yes, of course. Night!” 

Harry just shook his head as Ron left the room and got out the sheets and blankets that Hermione kept for him in the trunk by the end of the couch. Weirdly, though, the pillow was missing. He guessed when he’d used it last, it had ended up back in the room. Torn between sneaky in and just piling up his jumper, he made up the bed instead and pulled some PJs out of his bag, which had been moved into the room for him. He tried to just toss and turn for a few minutes, but it was useless. He was going to need a pillow. One year of camping was enough, and he was only a few feet and an awkward situation from fluffy comfiness.   
  
Reasoning that it was after two, he decided to sneak into the room and just grab a pillow. Whoever was in there was asleep, anyway. Was it a problem that the door creaked significantly when opened? Maybe. Was it an issue that Harry was not the stealthiest of people? One could argue yes. But pillow? Worth it, he thought. 

Until, of course, Harry realised that the very blonde, very-not-asleep man who had forced him from his cosy bed was none other than his former fiancé and current obsession. 

"Harry!" Draco exclaimed more concern than an actual exclamation. "What-what are you doing here…oh, wait. Do you want me to leave? I'll leave. It's okay. Don't wake the others. I tried to tell Hermione it was a bad idea and—" 

Despite his frustration and confusion, Harry grinned as Draco sprang out from under the covers, clad in one of Ron's far-too-large PJ sets and utterly flustered. Flustered Draco was rare. It was also Harry's favourite. 

"Draco," he laughed, "relax. I didn't know it was you. Ron just said I was on the couch, nothing more. Need a pillow." 

"Oh. Oh. Okay." 

"Why aren't you asleep? It's late," Harry said. Realising that was completely the wrong question, no matter how happy he was to see a sleepy, crumpled Draco at two in the morning. He wasn't really allowed to ask that question, not now. He shook his head at himself. "Wait. No. Why are you here? More important." 

Draco looked at him and opened his mouth several times. 

"Not that you have to tell me," Harry added hastily. "Hermione doesn't exactly let just anyone into the house, so I'm sure you have a good reason, I was just—" 

"We need to talk," Draco blurted. 

"Um, yeah, I mean…we did though, right? It didn't solve much." 

Draco began furiously shaking his head. "No," he insisted. "That was me, being a twat. Me, protecting the wrong thing. As usual. We, you and _I,_ need to talk. No Pansy. No more lies or half-truths." 

"Draco, you don't have to put yourself through the story again. It's okay, I understand. She told me everything and—" 

"She doesn't _know_ everything, Hare." 

Harry looked at Draco, his hair in disarray, his pyjamas sagging. It was an image not many people had seen; or at least, that had always been his assumption. He nodded. 

“Okay. So we need to talk,” he agreed.   
  
Draco gestured to the bed.   
  
“What...now?” Harry asked. “H-here?”   
  
“Um. No. Maybe...the morning. Or at least...the lounge?”   
  
Harry considered the alternative. Was he, realistically, going to sleep if he left this room right now? “The lounge has a bed in it too, right now,” he said, scrubbing his neck. He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and waited for Draco to do the same. Luckily, they both got over their ridiculous embarrassment the second they were sitting across from each other; it was quickly replaced with the weight of the things left unsaid and unexplained between them. 

“Well, okay. I’ve been debating how far back I need to go for this all to be explained. I think it’s far. You remember the trials I assume?"

Harry smiled ruefully. “The trials where I defended you and successfully kept your questionably problematic ass out of jail? Or do you mean the ones where I testified against your father and led to him being put in Azkaban.”   
  
Draco winced, scrubbing his face and curling his legs up around him as he pulled the blankets to him; he was likely cold. He was always cold. 

“Both,” he replied a moment later. “Harry, I’m about to tell you a story that will confirm everything you thought of my father. I can’t stop that from happening. But trust me, for all his many flaws, he always did things in the hopes that he would keep me and my mother safe. It was the wrong way, every time, disastrously at times, but he _did_ love us.”   
  
Harry nodded once and gestured for Draco to continue. He leaned back against one of the bedposts and waited for him to begin. 


	18. Chapter 18

Whatever else the war had been—and it had been a great many things—the final battle had shown Draco the true colours of all the people he’d always thought he knew so well. He was sad to determine that he had been right in almost every case; his classmates, his friends, his teachers, even, unfortunately, his family. They had all acted in exactly the way he’d anticipated. It meant that when the trials began, he was prepared. Ready. 

He marched into his father’s office the week before they’d all been arrested, and read him the letter he’d had written since he was fifteen. He would not be marrying for money, political gains, or the unity of families. He was done being a pawn. He may, one day, marry for love; a man who his father had no say in. If it happened, they would only be invited as a courtesy. He refused to raise an heir. He would no longer participate in the world as his father had always attempted to create it; Draco had acted that character for long enough. He was tired and broken, wounded beyond repair, and he wasn’t interested in doing anything more for anyone but himself. 

His father had acted predictably; a giant rage, marching into the bank to amend his will. But the truth was, Draco already had an exit strategy. He was going to go to jail for all his attempts to murder, but after that—if there was an _after that_ —he was going to America to start over. He didn’t need their money, built on blood and bigotry and wrong ideas about magic. It may have taken him seventeen years to figure it out, but the world was flipped and twisted and it was in seeing the underbelly that Draco saw the truth. 

His plans had not anticipated Harry Potter. They hadn’t considered an impassioned speech, on behalf of him and Pansy, Theo, even Blaise. How the Slytherin’s found in the castle had fought for the right side, in the end. How they had staved off the final moments until he’d been around. 

At the time, the words had filled Draco with cold shame and anger, but he fumed silently for the entire hour that Potter spoke. When the council announced that he would be released to his mother’s custody, without his wand and under house watch for a period of sixty days, the words had taken a week to sink in. 

His father’s death had been even less anticipated. No one was able to tell them what had happened; Azkaban, never known for its care of prisoners, rejected any attempts at blame for the illness that had taken him within a week. They had apparently real medical reports that showed the tumour in his spine growing at an alarming, unnatural rate. Draco honestly didn’t care. 

The house arrest was lifted long enough to have a funeral and read the will, the contents of which had not surprised Draco. 

“How could he do that?” Narcissa had muttered, over and over again. 

“It’s okay, Mother. I won’t fight it. He wanted me out of the house, I’ll go. You can’t jeopardize _your_ inheritance. I have money saved. I’ll get a job. It’s fine.   
  
“You won’t have your wand for another _year_. I forbid it. How do I change this? How do we invalidate it? I’ll sign whatever you need me to.”   
  
But Lucius, not a man of simple revenge, had crossed all the appropriate t’s. There was a letter from a Mediwitch declaring him of sound mind; there were three witnesses to the change in the will, one of whom was a blood relative—a distant cousin Draco did not remember ever meeting. The will was set in stone. 

He left the house with 4500 pounds in Muggle coin, no wand, and absolutely no idea how to live in their world. 

Theo had been an accident, truthfully. They’d slept together once, in a messy and ill-advised adventure in sixth year. When Draco found him in Diagon, begging on a corner and bruised from head to toe, it hadn’t taken more than a minute for him to offer half his savings. He had been raised in privilege and the number seemed large enough; he didn’t understand at the time how quickly they would burn through their resources, especially in London. When the money ran out, they’d both decided that going home was not a choice. They’d made their way North, fought their way into terrible jobs that did not pay rent and survived. Just barely, but survived. 

The Kitchen had been their saving grace; the non-profit that welcomed all regardless of background or means had been both confusing and a more than welcome reality for two Purebloods who’d been abandoned by those they’d fought to save. Living there two nights a week got them through that winter. 

Theo’s money had come through first. A loophole in the Reparations law, a regulation that allowed him an allowance per year because he was the last living Nott. He’d found them the dingey flat and moved them in immediately. Having learned better than to trust any ounce of fortune, neither had left their Muggle jobs. They were content, comfortable. 

When Blaise had found them and dragged Pansy back, they’d managed to convince them both that they were fine. 

His mother found a way to give him his inheritance and it had barely changed his life; he bought The Kitchen and endowed them for fifty years, then went back to living mostly on his Muggle income. 

It was then that the bank account problem had begun; he’d taken most of his identity papers with him when he’d left the Manor. Money, in those early days, in the hands of the right Goblin, had secured him Muggle documents. Opening the account was easy. 

Keeping it open, it would seem, was far more difficult. The first time it had happened, Draco had approached the Muggles with such fury that he’d been removed from the bank by security. Since he still didn’t have his wand at that point, he’d been utterly humiliated by how little force it had taken. Still, he’d assumed he’d made some mistakes, and the next day, he’d found a new bank and opened a new account, transferring what money he’d been able to recover into a secure box.

It wasn’t until the third closure that he’d worked out that something was wrong; almost at the exact same time, he’d realised that if someone else was accessing his accounts, there was likely Polyjuice involved, which meant the list of possible suspects was incredibly small. 

His father, at this point, had no power left in the world. Or so he’d assumed. It was, he figured, someone from the old guard, the slippery ones who’d managed to avoid detection. Raoul. Possibly Fudge. Marcus Flint. Someone meaning to cause him annoying inconvenience, discomfort, but without the political clout or the balls to actually harm him. 

By the time he worked out what was really happening, Harry had arrived; full of too curly hair and many blithering moments of pure annoyance, the fact that Harry had come to find him and check-in made Draco furious.   
  
At first. 

It was a slow process, the falling for him. He’d never meant it to happen. But he kept appearing at the store, buying denim he didn’t need and shoes that he definitely hated. He’d seek Draco out, trying to convince him to come back to the Ministry and file an appeal to reduce his wandless sentence. In the end, Draco had relented just to stop Harry from arriving at his workplace every day. He couldn’t take any more wolf whistles and kissing sounds from Amanda every time Potter showed up. 

He could admit, even then, that Harry had suddenly become far more attractive than he’d ever been before. Draco had never exactly found The Chosen One _difficult_ to look at, but in all honesty, the hatred and the brainwashing may have guarded some of his more adorable features. In the store, busy and in bad lighting, Potter’s full force was unleashed on him. He shoved his glasses up his nose, shoved his hands in his pockets too often, found a way to trip on nothing, and smiled as though it was the first time in his _entire_ life that he was doing it. 

Draco was done for before he even got his wand back. 

The council, when he’d been growing up, had always just been a rumour. He’d never seriously believed the stories his father told. For the two full, happy, glorious years of their shockingly uncomplicated relationship, Draco had barely given the anonymous note he’d received any second thought. 

Until the day at the fifth bank. It had happened again, and unguarded, he’d told Harry what had been happening. He didn’t even realise how serious it seemed until Harry’s brow was furrowed in that classic and adorable _I’m worried_ expression. 

“Draco, we should get the Aurors on that. Someone should be looking into it.”   
  
“Why?”

“Because you’ve been exonerated. You’ve served your time. No one should be messing with you. It’s illegal.”   
  
Draco had laughed, unintentionally, then. “Well, sure, but I’m pretty sure that the people involved don’t really give a shit about legality.”   
  
“What? Draco, who is it? Do you know _who_ has been doing this? We have to report them!”   
  
“I can't. It's not that easy. It's The Mage.”   
  
“The Mage,” Harry had deadpanned. He was obviously not impressed. “The Mage is a story.”   
  
“Except apparently when it isn’t.”   
  
“Hm.”   
  
That _Hm_ had stayed with him for months, but then, it had been the fourteenth. The bank thing didn’t happen again, and his promise to his father before his death rang through his ears. Here he was, sitting on the _floor_ of a Muggle flat, with a Muggle job and Muggle friends. Admittedly, it wasn’t a Muggle boyfriend, but his promise to his father held firm.

“I have no money. We can’t get married.” The complaint had been to Pansy, not Harry. Harry would just brush him off in the way of the rich who didn’t know how rich they were. Draco had been that person. He knew what the feeling would be. Pansy understood. 

“Then why did you say yes?”   
  
“I love him.”   
  
“See? This is what I’m always saying to you and Theo. Hopeless romantics.”   
  
“Says the one who proposed to her husband with a skywriter.”   
  
“Well, I could hardly wait for him to get around to it, could I now.”   
  
Draco had shut up. He’d kept quiet through months of planning; fewer months than most, but they didn’t want anything fancy. It wasn’t really who they were. The end of May, decided on because it was after all the anniversaries, but before the start of the birthdays. Practicality more than sentimentality, the only time that had ever been the case.

* * *

Harry interrupted Draco now, holding up a hand and muttering. The first sound he’d made in many minutes.   
  
“Draco, no offence, but what is any of this telling me? I knew all of this,” he declared. He sounded annoyed. Draco was gleeful. He wanted Harry angry. He wanted him furious. It was the only way he was going to feel better. 

“Harry, I know you do. The thing you don’t know is… it's about Carl. That’s the part Pansy doesn’t...she thinks she knows. She doesn’t. Let me finish.”   
  
He nodded and curled his legs against his chest, mimicking Draco’s pose.

* * *

Carl had happened two weeks before the wedding. Two weeks. Had he managed to avoid the situation for two weeks, they may have all been fine. He would be married to Harry right now, curled into this bed with him before his best friends’ Christmas celebration, working at the store at ungodly hours but heading home to Scotland to live in Harry’s quarters with him. Hell, maybe he’d even have gone crazy and quit the store job before this holiday season. 

But that isn’t what happened. The Mage had made sure of that. 

The bank account closures he normally missed completely had been immediately noticed; they may not be doing anything fancy, but weddings were expensive. He’d wanted to surprise Harry with a Wizarding Photographer, a thing he’d insisted they didn’t need but that he secretly wanted to have. He’d gone to the machine to take out the deposit in pounds, to take to Diagon and convert. His card had spat itself right back out at him. Naively assuming foolishness or ignorance because he wasn’t at his own branch, he’d stormed angrily inside.

Carl had been at the desk. 

The attraction had been instantaneous and complete; that maybe should have been Draco’s first clue that something wasn’t right. He was cautious in these things. He barely trusted his own opinion of other people, a combination of a lack of trust in others, and a lack of trust in what he deserved. Pansy was how he understood his emotions. 

With Carl, he’d flirted so intensely that he’d felt sick. He left the bank with his number, and the attraction had been so mutual that he’d seen him that night. A week later, Carl had convinced him to leave his fiance. A week after that, he was summoning Hermione to the outside of the hall and announcing to her that there would be no wedding. 

In retrospect, that bitter elixir that never did anyone any good, Draco had realised that something was wrong. He _loved_ Harry, just not as much as he loved Carl. It had taken him six months of feeling ill as he fell asleep to dig deeper and figure out what had happened.   
  
The point, he supposed, of a Compulsion, was that they played with the right emotions. They balanced themselves into the psyche quickly and solidly, making it completely indistinguishable from the real emotions. By the time he’d started feeling the flu-like symptoms of a long term compulsion, Draco had already suspected something was wrong. The flat that he lived in with Carl felt _wrong_ , fabricated and not his. It was all a bit foggy on the edges, like a very realistic dream.

* * *

“The mind healer that Mungo’s brought in had never seen a more sophisticated hex,” Draco concluded. “I found out a few weeks ago. Three, to be exact. It...Carl didn’t take it well. He’s a squib. It’s why the magic worked. He really didn’t know. I think he was kept away from it all, raised by his mother away from his father.”   
  
“A Compulsion,” Harry deadpanned, not exactly disbelieving but looking for all the world like he wanted to slap Draco square in the face. Draco understood. He simply nodded. “Okay, fine. So a Compulsion. What does that have to do with the bank?”   
  
“It was just... _them_ , trying to get us to meet.”   
  
Harry sighed. “Okay, fine. Draco. Let’s say I believe you. Let’s pretend that The Mage council exists, and were trying to get you to meet this person, and then you abandoned me on the day of our wedding because you had magically fallen in love. Explain to me why the bank thing is still happening?” 

Draco sighed in return. “I am going to _kill_ Pansy. Well, okay. I don’t know this one for sure. But I’m pretty sure its Carl this time. Using Polyjuice. I think he has my hairbrush.” 

“Why?”   
  
“He’s not taken it very well. I learned about it, took him to the healer. Tried to help him too. But he’s taken it harder. It took Pansy threatening him to get him to leave my flat.”   
  
Harry whipped out a facial expression that never failed to send Draco’s stomach to his feet; he arched an eyebrow. The action belonged to Draco, and he was ashamed to admit how much it turned him on that Harry had picked it up. 

“Why would your father want you to meet some random bank worker, a _squib_ , for that matter. What purpose could you fall in love with someone like that serve?”   
  
Draco looked away. The question was the right one; he’d known Harry would get there eventually. “Because, Harry, he wanted his will to be the final one. Carl’s full name is Amiecarel Vivantial Prudent Avery.”   
  
“Avery,” Harry repeated, eyes locking on Draco’s, who nodded. “And you’re telling me that your father planned all of this before he died? A compulsion to an Avery. Convenient, isn’t it.” 

“Look, I know how I sound, okay? Why do you think I haven’t talked to you until now. I’m...embarrassed isn’t even the beginning of what I feel. But more importantly, I am furious. My fucking father, from beyond the fucking _grave_ , still managing to screw up my life.”   
  
“Well, then,” Harry asked, temper rising in him from deep beneath the surface. It was still the middle of the night, after all. Their tones had barely risen past a whisper. It was making the entire conversation feel much more dangerous. “Why the fuck tell me now? Hm, Draco? Why bother?”   
  
“Harry,” Draco said quietly. “Harry, you _know why_ .”   
  
In the distant fuzziness of the rest of the house, they both heard a fussing baby and Harry stood so suddenly that he dishevelled the blankets beside him. “I’m going to go get her before Ron wakes up again,” he said shortly, stomping out of the room.   
  
“The look on your face at the fountain made me feel like it wasn’t too late,” Draco whispered at his back. 

Harry, he was sure, hesitated for the barest fraction of a second before he disappeared into the darkened corridor and shut the door behind him.


	19. Chapter 19

**December 20**

“You didn’t have to get up,” Hermione whispered with a yawn, setting herself down on the footstool across from the rocker. 

“I was already awake,” Harry replied, rocking Rose back to sleep. She was fussy and possibly teething; waking up in the night wasn’t a normal thing for her anymore. Harry was struggling with his brain’s suggestion that she knew something was up.

“Late one, huh?”  
  
“I’ve been here for a while,” he clarified. “I was talking with Draco.”  
  
Hermione’s sleepy face disappeared in an instant and she sat up a bit straighter. “Oh,” she started. “I was hoping you...wouldn’t notice. Not until morning.”  
  
“No pillow in the crate,” he explained. He shrugged, relaxed. “It’s okay. I thought I had the whole story. Pansy was at the castle last week. She told me…Hermione, I’m scared.”  
  
She looked at him with a puzzled expression.  
  
“I know how I’m supposed to be feeling. I should be furious. I should be saying things like ‘how can I ever trust you now’ and ‘I’ll never be fooled again. But…” He trailed off with a sigh. “Hermione, what the hell am I supposed to do?”  
  
She smiled at him sadly. “Harry, you’re supposed to do whatever your heart tells you. And yes, I hear myself. I know what I sound like. I would be sneering in my own face right now. But, honestly?”  
  
He looked at her, waiting for her to go on. Her face was scrunched up in that ‘I’ve been thinking too hard about this’ way. “There are ways I'm supposed to be feeling too. Maybe I should be yelling at you not to let him back into your life, to run in the other direction,” she continued. “But I’m not going to.”  
  
“Surprising,” he grinned sadly. “Why?”   
  
She shrugged as her face relaxed. “Ron and I talked. We decided you were the only one who got to choose what happens next. We’re not happy with you being so miserable, but I don’t think this is our place to advise you.”   
  
“Never stopped you before,” Harry teased.  
  
“I know,” she smirked. “Harry, you know that it took a lot of work to let Draco in the first time.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“When he showed up yesterday with that story, I was expecting it to be impossible to do it a second time. But it wasn’t,” she insisted. “I believe him. He’s worked so hard to be someone he wasn’t raised to be, and you’re my family. If you need _him_ to be _your_ family, then he is. Or if you need us to be furious and never speak to him again, that’s what we do.”

“That’s exactly the problem," Harry complained. "I wasn't angry even when he left, and it seems like a lot of work to start now? I was always just sad. Immensely sad. I mean, sure, I thought he’d just changed his mind, realised I wasn’t what he needed. It was hard to hear, but I wouldn't have wanted him to suffer. And yeah, I guess I thought it would have been ideal if he’d discovered it earlier and everything, but I was in love with him."   
  
“You _are_ in love with him. So you already forgave him. And now, you don’t need to forgive him again," Hermione said. 

“That, and the fact that none of this is our fault."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Lots of things _have_ been our fault over the years. The stupid rivalry, the dumb teasing and fighting. Even the trials being as dramatic as they were. Those things were us. This just isn’t that. This is Draco Malfoy, having to once again defend himself against people who pretend to love him.”  
  
Hermione reached out and took the baby from Harry’s arms; she stirred slightly and then relaxed into sleep against her mother's chest. “So then, the question is why the hell are you sitting here right now, leaving him in agony?” she asked, laying Rose down in her cot.  
  
“Hermione, what are people going to say? No one is going to just accept a six-month break and move on. Molly is going to murder me. The papers will get a hold of the story. We’ll be the target of everyone all over again.”  
  
“For a little bit. But is that worth giving up what is being offered? A second and third attempt, a chance to just be happy?”

  
"We don't know if that's what he wants. He hasn't said anything. He could just be trying to get it all off his chest."   
  
“Don’t fucking lie to yourself, Harry James,” Hermione insisted in a quiet hiss. She so rarely swore that he took notice and chuckled a little. “You know exactly what he wants. He showed up at my house six days before Christmas, with a wild expression and a wilder tale. You know he wants you back. Stop being an idiot and go get him."

  
“Well,” Harry fumbled.   
  
“Okay.”  
  
Harry groaned. “Do I have to tell him tonight?”  
  
“Depends what you’re going to tell him.”  
  
Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes tightly. “I’m going to tell him that it’s almost Christmas and we can work out the messy parts later but, for today, for right now, I just want to melt back into fairy lights and presents and warm cocoa and loving him, and if he can handle that, then I will protect him from the outside bullshit for as long as he lets me, and that he had better have learned his lesson about keeping shit from me because I feel like this whole thing could have been avoided.”  
  
“Well,” Hermione grinned. “That seems like the type of thing that shouldn’t wait until morning.”

* * *

Harry bolted down the corridor, swinging the door open hard. Draco was dressed, his long coat slung across his arm as he tucked his feet into his boots. Harry ignored his jumbled speech of shock, his indication that he was leaving and would Apparate home and Harry could call him in the morning if he wanted. He tried to push past Harry through the doorway he was blocking. Harry reached out to stop him, managing to grab a corner of his coat. Spinning him around until his back hit the wall and turned the lights out surprised himself as much as it did Draco. Crowding into his space, pressing himself flush to his body, colliding in a kiss that meant so much more than it needed to and seared him to the core; these things were not surprising. They were good and right and perfect. He was not a fan of words. This was far more effective and far more enjoyable. 

Draco resisted. Harry could practically hear the thoughts that were spinning around his beautiful head. The questions he’d just raised to Hermione, the emotions he wanted to ask Harry about, the cautions he wanted to provide. But Harry silenced them all, not by pushing or forcing. They’d both had enough of that. Instead, he pulled back, letting an inch of space between them and staring up into Draco’s eyes as intently as he could. It took a couple of heartbeats, a few fervent moments before Draco let the questions be answered all at once and leaned back in. The gasps for breath sounded like one lung breathing, and the melting of Harry’s body turned into a hum all at once.  
  
When they finally pulled apart, Harry laughed. 

“Look at that,” he said. “Finally feels like Christmas.”  
  
Draco smiled, but the expression was sad and broken. Harry reached out to smooth down his hair. He brushed a hand across his cheek. 

“Draco,” he murmured. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to figure it out. I’m here, now. I’m going to be here.”  
  
“Why?” Draco whispered, the sound barely audible.  
  
“Because, you utter moron, I love you.” Harry tucked his arms around Draco’s waist and pulled him close, a hug that was meant to be safety, and dragged him off the wall to move him even closer. “At some point, I am determined that you will stop making it more complicated than that.”


	20. Chapter 20

**December 21**

The smell of waffles woke him from a deep and troubling dream. Sometime after three am, he had been left to the cool of the empty bed and Harry’s insistence that they didn’t need to talk until the morning. With him back in the lounge, feeling a thousand miles away, Draco had finally let himself quietly sob. The possibility that Harry would be back in his bed soon, the fractured self that was his psyche at the moment, and the complete lack of anger and fighting were far too much for his three in the morning brain to take. 

His face felt puffed and crusty, but the warm glow that rested beneath it made him get up and rinse his face. Still in borrowed pyjamas, he wandered out to the kitchen and found Ron standing beside a complicated Waffle iron, the type that fancy restaurants had.   
  
“Morning,” he said gruffly, a curt nod following his quick glance at Draco. “Coffee or tea?”   
  
“Um, coffee? I can get it myself—”   
  
“Nonsense. Saturday morning breakfast, the kitchen is mine. You know that. Stay out of the way.”   
  
Defeated, Draco sat heavily at the table. He hadn’t seen Ron last night, but Draco wasn’t naive enough to think that meant he didn’t know what had happened. He felt slightly comforted by the tone in Ron’s voice. Maybe he’d finally found the anger that had been missing from everyone else, the anger he felt he deserved. 

A moment later, Ron plunked a cup of coffee down and threw the latest waffle into the pan that was already in the oven. No eating until everyone was awake. Another brunch rule he’d desperately missed. The smell of this kitchen, the warm yellow walls, Ron whistling as he spooned the batter into the machine. Harry had been right. It _did_ finally feel like Christmas. 

Setting a timer and picking up his own mug, Ron sat heavily across from Draco and reached behind to a drawer, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen. 

“Right,” he said stiffly. “First things first. I’m going to go ahead and hazard a guess that you haven’t involved the Aurors in your case yet. Am I right?”   
  
Draco looked at him, baffled. “Well...yes, but I mean...it isn’t a case. There’s no crime—”   
  
“Malfoy, were you or were you not the victim of a Compulsion spell? A spell made illegal by the Wizengamot in 1896?” he asked seriously. 

Ron’s Auror tone was nothing like the voice he used normally, and Draco could see why. It sent a strange chill down his spine. The darker, sillier part of his brain, the one he kept locked tightly away, hoped that Hermione had him pull that voice out sometimes. It would be a dreadful waste if not. 

“I mean, yes, but—”  
  
“I know. I already have your medical reports from St Mungo’s.”   
  
“ _What_?”   
  
“Auror card goes a long way, especially when you show up at one in the morning.”   
  
“I can’t believe you would—no, wait, that’s not true. I completely believe you _would,_ but I’m not surprised you _did._ ”   
  
“Well, get over it. Now, Carl, the one listed in your reports. He’s the one from the car in the summer, right?”   
  
Draco nodded.   
  
“Good. Wizard or Muggle?”   
  
“Wizard, but a squib.”   
  
“He’s an Avery,” came a sleepy voice behind him. “Morning.”   
  
Harry appeared in the kitchen, also pyjama-clad and wrapped in a wool blanket that was trailing on the floor. He sat at the empty seat to Draco’s left; Draco let the tension he’d been holding uncoil slightly. It seemed that the morning had brought back physical boundaries. As much as he wanted to pull Harry into his lap and keep him there forever, Ron be damned, something about the following of social cues on Harry’s part put Draco back at ease. 

“Right. I’ll make sure I put that in the report. Absolutely relevant. Tea, I assume?” Ron asked, standing to get down Harry’s polka-dot mug as he nodded.

“Report?” Draco interjected, alarmed. “Ron, I’m not _reporting_ anything.”   
  
“You bloody well are, idiot,” Harry returned. Ron nodded once as he sat back down.   
  
“You have direct evidence that The Mage exists. So yes, you are. Now, what else do you want to add?”   
  
“Someone is still using Polyjuice to turn into him,” Harry offered, sipping his tea. “He’s pretty sure it’s Carl.”   
  
“Makes sense,” Ron nodded. “He had...access.”   
  
Draco groaned and dropped his head to the table in defeat. This, it would appear, was happening. 

“Well, that’s a deja vu if I’ve ever seen one,” Hermione announced. Rose was toddling in behind her on unsteady legs, already gurgling. “He’s been back for all of one evening, and you two already have him with his head in his hands. It’s okay, Malfoy. I’m here to defend you now.”   
  
Draco lifted his head a little to look at her. “Oh no, you aren’t. You’ll definitely be on their side. They’re trying to make me report this all to the Aurors.”   
  
Hermione laughed. “Well, _obviously_. You came into a house containing those two, spoke of illicit spells, and you expected them to just drop it? Have you met either of them?”   
  
“I keep hoping the Gryffindor sense of black and white justice will discover the shade of grey one day in their old age,” Draco complained.   
  
“Maybe it will. When the grey starts being slightly less black,” Harry shot back. 

"Oh God," Draco groaned. "I have to call Pansy. She's going to gloat." 

Harry stood up to get coffee for Hermione, brushing past Draco and smoothing down his hair. An almost painful shiver of nostalgia washed over him and he closed his eyes against the sensation. Harry was grinning at him when he opened them again.

"What?" Draco demanded. 

"Nothing," Harry shrugged. "Forgot." 

"Forgot what?" he pushed, his tone shifting to one of silent embarrassment. 

Harry's smile was lovely. He hadn't seen it in so many months, not since before he'd broken anything. His breath caught in his throat and he felt like a very silly young teenager, falling for a crush. It was foolish and unfair. Harry may have started the conversation with the kiss the night before; he'd opened the door to reconciliation, but Draco wasn't stupid. He knew that he had many things to answer for, many apologies to make. 

Harry watched him carefully for a moment. "Draco, let's go for a walk." 

"But, waffles," Ron protested. 

"Waffles can wait," Harry said simply. 

"Merlin," Ron complained. "This feels familiar. Are we sure Draco needs to be forgiven?" 

Hermione's gaze turned murderous. 

"What?" Ron said. "Too soon?"

* * *

Five minutes later, Draco was back in his clothes from the day before and bundled in his coat beside Harry and his long, skipping stride. He laughed lightly. 

"What?" 

"I forgot you were like walking beside a Spaniel." 

Harry chuckled. "And _I_ had forgotten how sexy you look when I touch your hair. I needed to get you out of that kitchen." 

Draco looked away.

"Too much? I can stop. I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable…I know you're dealing with a lot right now." 

" _Me,_ " Draco exclaimed. "You're the one dealing with this. I've had a lot of time to, I don't know, process? Why aren't you furious. Why aren't you demanding an apology." 

"D, you had a spell fuck with your emotions. I've been there. That's not exactly easy to deal with. How are you feeling?" 

"I wish I could go back in time and tell you everything. Ask you to help me, tell you about the months before we met. We could have saved so much time." 

"Well, sure. But that's not what I asked."

"No, I know. But I don't know what to say about that question. It doesn't seem helpful to explain that I love you as much as always have. That if you wanted to, I'd marry you tomorrow. But that at the same time, I still get a whole fuzzy shock if I see Carl. It's…how can we just go backwards?"

"We start by going forwards. Come on," Harry gestured. They'd reached the high street and Harry grabbed his hand and pulled him along. 

"What are we doing?" Draco said sharply, looking up at where they'd stopped. 

"This is my bank. We'll add you to my Muggle account. I never use it anyway, but it'll make it harder to close it because you'll need me there too." 

Draco shook his head and pulled his hand from Harry's grasp. "No, I won't put you in the middle of this. I'll go to the Aurors, tomorrow I swear. Keep yourself away from it, though." 

"Darling," Harry said, sounding a little exasperated. "Are we doing this?" 

"W-what?" 

"This. Between us. Are we going to be together again?" 

Draco sighed. "I want that. I do." 

"Trust me, then." 

"Trust me, I'm Harry Potter?" Draco smirked. The old joke rolled easily off his tongue and made Harry smile. 

"Well exactly. And when we're done here, were going to go eat waffles with my family. And then tomorrow, I'm coming with you to the Auror department. And the day after _that_ ," he said gently, picking up Draco's hand again and pulling him closer. "We are going to start celebrating Christmas in that dreadful little flat of yours and Theo's. In all the moments in between, I'm going to continue to be confused and alarmed and sad and afraid of what it means to love each other still. Can you handle these terms?"

"I have twelve pounds of Bertie Botts in my flat," Draco said out of the blue. "I don't know why I didn't throw them out. They're still in their little favour bags. I looked at them every day and thought 'you should throw them out'. But there they sit. Do you think my brain knew? That one day, we'd be standing here again?" 

Harry chuckled."Draco, maybe you did. Or maybe you're just really good at procrastinating. But either way, I don't think the jelly beans are a good enough reason not to go into the bank right now and solve one problem at a time. Do you?" 

Draco took a deep breath and pushed open the door. Inside, the sounds of Mariah Carey singing ' _you should be here with me, baby, please come home'._


	21. Chapter 21

**December 23rd**

Draco could hardly believe that when he woke up Monday morning, he was tucked into Harry's embrace. And he had to go to work. 

The arm slung over him was possessive and warm, bundling him into Harry's side on the too-small guest bed in Hermione's house. It was too familiar, too real, too past. It was perfect.

Harry didn't shift when Draco woke up, didn't seem to care that he was going to leave him behind. They'd fallen asleep in the bed, fully clothed, just talking. Not about anything in particular. Nothing important. But while Ron and Hermione had gone to put Rose to bed, the two of them had wandered away and ended up lying down, a foot apart. Sleep, when it came, was surprising. Draco hadn't slept well in months, so waking up now, rested and alert, felt like a new start. One of many. 

But Draco had to shuffle himself out from the arm and Apparate to his flat to throw on a new jumper, and he tried not to let it make him feel broken, cold, or tired. 

He decided to Apparate straight to work, too. It was the 23rd and he was late as it was. Late and flustered, and he'd forgotten his apron. 

Amanda saw him first; this was almost inevitable, to be honest. Amanda had seen Draco first after so many years and moments and he loved her for her complete lack of subtly in moments like this. 

She found him in the back, frantically searching his locker, which did _not_ contain his apron or his name tag or his antlers. She looked at him for a moment, cocked her head, and laughed a quick, adorable laugh. 

"Oh my God!" she declared. "Are you _humming?"_

"What?" he explained. "I am not!" 

"Are too," she insisted gleefully. " _Mariah."_

"Yeah, well, I that's just because…you got it stuck in my bloody head." 

She smirked at him "Sure. Sure it is. Did you forget your apron?" 

Draco sighed and turned to her. 'Mandy, I've had a very weird two days off. Can you help me?"

She smiled at him so warmly that he felt like hugging her. She moved her hands from behind her back and handed him an apron, antlers, and a freshly minted name tag. 

"Amanda—" 

"Yeah, yeah, don't start. Two days in a row this close to Christmas? I'm sure it was important. You…you've kept me here. Alive. Afloat, Draco. I'd have given up three years ago if not for you. And the kitchen. I figure I owe you one."

"There's a lot I owe you, mama," Draco whispered. He was suddenly embarrassingly close to crying. "If you only knew what I'd been doing… What I've _done._ " 

Suddenly, Draco's arms were full of dark, sleek hair and damp cheeks, happy giggles and a tiny little girl who wouldn't still be alive had his centre lost its funding. 

"Draco," she asserted into his neck. "This is a new day. The day gave us _this_."

"Amanda, that it did." 

She pulled back and grinned at him. "Is this the part where you tell me you got him back?" 

"Mandy, I told you. Carl and I—" 

"No, no, not _Carl._ Carl should be arrested. No, I meant that lovely _Harry._ The one who proposed? You two gonna finally tie it up? He made you so happy."

"What—who? _How?"_

"Oh, your friend Theo was by yesterday to pick up the sock donations. He mentioned. I'm so happy. I miss happy Draco. I missed _Christmas_ happy Draco." 

"It's so complicated, Mandy. Don't get your hopes up. I know I'm not letting mine."

"Yes, but that is the difference between you and I. I exude hope. I live on last chances and desperate causes. You should try it."

He laughed. "Amanda, never leave me." 


	22. Chapter 22

There were many more moments of drama. There was the afternoon where Draco sat in the office of the Head Examiner of the Auror Department for the British Ministry for Magic, and was berated and implicated for several hours.

There was the subsequent evening where he stopped being able to talk to Harry, instead appearing at Theo’s door and getting very _very_ drunk. There was the following night where he’d drunkenly walked the seventeen blocks to Hermione and Ron’s house and banged on the door until a bleary-eyed Harry had finally let him in. He’d sobbed for several hours then, moving from drunk to hungover in a spurt of tears and confusion that had Harry mostly laughing at him. 

There had been the next day, Christmas Eve, naturally, where Harry had called Draco on an infrequently used mobile to come to the Ministry and help them identify Carl. The ingredients of Polyjuice found in his kitchen did enough of the evidence-collecting that Draco decided pressing charges was going to be cruel rather than helpful. He demanded that Carl be given to the Medihealers. It didn’t matter much, at this point. The Compulsion had been completely dispelled; as Draco stood beside Harry and Carl both in the atrium that day, he’d felt none of the confusion, none of the strange tug. He was merely content to let Harry be _right_ and to let Harry feel that Draco was _safe_. 

On Christmas day that year, they told Molly. Well, told would be an oversimplification. At Ron’s insistence, they instead simply turned up at the Burrow with Draco in tow. He’d tried his best to look presentable. Trimmed hair, oiled wingtip shoes, a suit jacket and a deep-green knitted vest that she’d made him with a tiny _D_ on the breast. ‘More dignified than a jumper,’ she’d said briskly when she’d handed it to him at his first Christmas lunch. He’d entered the house this year with a weight in his stomach; surely, this was the end. This was where the blanket forgiveness, the foolish acceptance of his very terrible betrayal of Harry’s trust, all ended. Molly Weasley was not Harry Potter. She did not forgive easily and she did not tolerate people who hurt her children. 

Harry and Ron had quickly disappeared into the house, Hermione remaining at his side until Arthur came and took Rose from her arms. She squeezed his hand gently and smiled sadly before she, too, left him in the entryway. 

“Outside,” Molly said, bristling past him in an apron and brandishing a cup towel. He followed her out the still open door, ready to be told to never darken this doorway again. “Harry has already been here. I know the whole story. Give me a reason to believe you?” 

“I have none,” he admitted. 

“That’s going to be a problem, Mr Malfoy,” Molly returned, a bite to her tone that made him wince. 

“I can’t make anyone believe me. I don’t deserve another chance. I don’t understand why I’m being given one.”  
  
“That, too, is a problem. I know _exactly_ why you have been brought here. Do you honestly not?”  
  
Draco looked down at the ground as Molly’s sharp gaze pinned him to the spot. “I don’t deserve his love, though.”  
  
“Perhaps not. Honestly, boy, I feel like that remains to be seen. I assume you have taken the necessary precautions toward you and your home and businesses from further tampering by well-meaning relatives?”  
  
“And my finances and personal documents,” Draco whispered, genuinely afraid of what was coming next.  
  
“Well then, that’s that. Harry has spoken, and we will continue forward. You have, I’m afraid, lost my trust. It’s not impossible to earn it back, but—” 

“I missed him," Draco blurted. "Even when I didn’t know why. Even when the spell made me think — I missed him and this and my _life_. He’s my _life._ I just need to stop having to be who I was and be who I am. I need to live with him and around him and _because_ of him. It’s not good enough. It’s not an apology. It’s not a reason for your trust. It’s just...all I have.”  
  
Molly took his chin in her hand, then. She brought his face to meet hers. She smiled; the expression was small, but it reached her eyes. She nodded once. “Draco, there is your reason. Never stop making him understand that, and you’ll figure it out. Now,” she continued, dropping his face. 

She reached into her pocket and brought out a familiar purple box. “If I know Harry, he’ll be ready for this to be back on your hand sooner than the rest of us will be. Sooner than you will be, in fact. But it’s Christmas, and all my family is here and safe and as happy as can be expected. And for that, I somehow have you to thank. So, I am giving you this back. To give to him. I took it, months ago. Hermione had it, I think, from you, I imagine. But I took it. And then, for some reason, I didn’t do anything else.”  
  
Draco took the box from her outstretched hand. 

“I don’t have your history with them. Not from school, not from the war. Oh, sure, I knew your family. But what good has that ever done for anyone? I have pages of my family tree I’d sooner burn. So hear me now, Draco Abraxas Malfoy. I knew something was wrong. I’m angry at you. Furious. And I want to protect Harry. But, I _knew_ something was wrong, and I kept that damned ring because of it. There won’t be a next time.”  
  
“Understood, Mrs Weasley,” Draco whispered, opening the box to gaze at the familiar brushed platinum inside. It had an inlay of flat, single moonstone, tiny and unassuming. Harry’s matching ring had an emerald instead. New beginnings and great love. Fitting, now. Fitting even then. The pain of it’s meaning not changing at all hurt him deeply, but Draco snapped the lid shut. Suddenly, he was pulled int a loose hug, a carefully held embrace with distance and caution, but a hug nonetheless. 

“It’s Molly, love,” she said. “Now come. You can help me in the kitchen.” 

All through lunch, all through presents and Christmas radio, Harry hovered near-by. He never really touched Draco, which was noticeable only to him. Harry wasn’t clingy, not by a long shot, but he was also not usually distant. He would find touch-points to reassure Draco, not because he thought they needed them, but because he didn’t think of it at all. He’d find a touch of a toe on a socked foot, or Harry’s thumb, brushing his thigh. A bump of a shoulder as he moved passed in a corridor, or the straightening of a tie. 

He used to, that is. 

The ring box weighed down his pocket until finally, after pudding, they all started to trickle back to their homes. The years of the Burrow being able to hold them, house them, were long past. Hermione took the baby home, and Ron Apparated a short time later. Slowly, one at a time, the other families disappeared. Harry sat in the kitchen, helping with the washing up, and Draco took himself outside to stare up at the stars, unsure of if he should leave. He almost did. 

“You’re still here,” a quiet voice finally said, interrupting his thoughts.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Draco replied automatically.  
  
“Why?” Harry mused, wrapping an arm around Draco’s waist and pulling him in. “I’m very glad you stayed, Draco.”  
  
“Okay,” Draco replied, leaning into the touch. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the box. “Molly gave this to me. I don’t feel right having it.”  
  
Harry took it automatically and opened it slowly. He smiled. “You should just put it back on. Oh, relax. God, your face,” he teased with a laugh. “I’m not suggesting we march down the aisle next week. But. Draco, I’m not sure there’s any point pretending I don’t still want to marry you. Oh sure, I don’t trust you right now. I’m hurt. I’m confused. And I sort of want to murder every person you’ve ever called ‘family’, but all of that changes nothing. I was ready to take you, for better or worse. This is worse.”  
  
“Those words don’t have to mean anything. Divorce is a thing that happens. Marriage isn’t a shackle.”  
  
“Sure, I agree,” Harry said, swinging Draco against him so they were face to face. “But in the in-between, you can wear the ring. Okay?”  
  
Draco grinned. “I love you, you know?”  
  
“Convenient. Since I love you too.”

* * *

They’re lives, in the living, would never be quite what you’d describe as _easy._ They were made of fire, both of them. There were arguments over how and when money should be spent. They had different views on what city and jobs one could live in comfortably, and how long a Floo to work was what you could consider acceptable.

When they eventually had children, they would argue for many months about names, only to realise when they’re daughter arrived that they’d both been entirely wrong.

They didn’t always agree about Politics or Law, and when there was the opportunity to determine what should be done to update the making of magical ills in terms of the legality of spells and addendums, they had differing views on how to proceed. 

But, the long and the short of it was this; Harry Potter was quick to forgive. Draco Malfoy was quick to judge, but quicker to reassess and adopt hopeless causes. They struggled to stay put, struggled to settle down, never stopped helping others. Draco kept his job, Harry his. They raised two children with a foot in both worlds, and when the children asked questions about the past, Harry would spin fantastic tales that made them both seem more heroic and romantic than they were. Draco would fill in with just enough truth that they would believe them. 

They made an excellent team. 

When Amanda finally left the store, it was to take Erica with her; they bought a house together on the south shore, opened a cafe that never played Christmas music, and left Andre to his broken heart and a bundle of new employees to train at his very own franchise. He healed quickly and was a better manager than Erica had ever been. 

When Carl decided to move to America, Draco found him a contact at MECUSA and gifted him with _Magic Through the Ages_. He met a lovely half-blood witch named Agatha who Draco and Harry met at Christmas the following year, and they never brought up the banks again. Partly because it was embarrassing and unfair, given that many hexes and curses left their victims memory-less. The Compulsion had not been one of them. Avery the senior died before he could learn of his son’s betrayal of the ancient blood, and Draco’s mother gave Carl away at his wedding in Massachusetts the following March. 

When Draco and Harry finally got married, it was seven years after their first wedding was to have taken place, and no one really understood why they bothered. They'd been living together and wearing rings the whole time. Still, a wedding happened and it was much bigger than originally planned.

There were people from both worlds, people from both timelines, people from both sides. There was dancing and singing, and even a pantomime that was quickly shut down before it was allowed to conclude. It was a large, brash, wild affair. Their then-infant daughter, named Talia Louise, after absolutely no one and nothing, was the star. It was a wedding neither of them had planned, neither of them had wanted, but that both of them absolutely needed. 

The long and the short of it is, when you finally find your soulmate; when Christmas is around the corner; when the lights are twinkling in everyone’s eye, forgiveness and forgetfulness in abundance. When these stars all align, there is little one can do to stop the force of time. 

And, I think, we can all be grateful that this is the case. Draco Malfoy-Potter certainly is.


End file.
